


Whiskey Lullaby

by CaptainCorgi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock Gang, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Flashbacks, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Team Dynamics, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCorgi/pseuds/CaptainCorgi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The buzz of the communicator had him jumping, knee slammed against the metal desk and a string of curses followed. Not looking, Jesse palmed the device, opening its front screen and stopped cold. The message wasn't from any of his team mates. In fact it wasn't from Overwatch at all. There was no sent from address, no name, and it contained one sentence.</p>
<p><b>Recipient: </b> 10.29M.76<br/><b>Status: </b> Urgent<br/><b>Subject: </b> <em> - </em></p>
<p>  <b>Message: </b></p>
<p>Welcome home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chose a Gun & Throw Away the Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Bad Company" by Bad Company.

_ Deadlock _ . One word and so many memories. The communicator fell into his lap, the news article highlighted across the screen bright in the growing evening. Overlooking the cliffs of Gibraltar, Jesse huffed on his cigar. The smoke curled out of his mouth, dancing in the air before dispersing with the sea breezes.

**DEADLOCK RISES FROM SMOKE**

_ Another of Overwatch's Oversights _

The message was addressed from Winston's personal communications. No other recipients were listed. It had been for Jesse's eyes only. He was thankful the big ape was discrete enough to not bring up his past to the whole crew. They all had dirty laundry - didn't mean they all wanted it aired. Other members understood where their comrades came from but the less they truly knew the more comfortable Jesse was.

That the article directly addressed the issue of Overwatch troubled the gunslinger. If their actions began to draw unwanted attention, well, he had avoided jail once and the life of a vigilante wasn't unknown to him. The other members however - Jesse could admit to being worried over how they would handle life in confinement. A little over a year had passed since recall and rumors flew about Overwatch's reforming but governments' had appeared too preoccupied with their own internal strife to crack down. Overwatch had flown under the radar. There was no Omnic Crisis to crush so there was no requirement for a recruitment on the scale previous. Overwatch was a skeleton of its former self. Jesse found he preferred it like that. Fewer youngins to watch over. Those that did answer recall he already understood - for the most part.

Jesse tapped the cigar against the boulder he lounged into, picking up the communicator to re-read the headline for the sixteenth time. The article spoke of minor disturbances. Of how Deadlock was reportedly responsible for an uprising in Dorado by supplying restricted heavy weaponry. Of how Deadlock was coming onto radar with rumors of the gang reaching into other illegal activities - drug trafficking, reactivated and weaponized omnics, and human trafficking. Jesse sighed, drawing deep from his cigar, curling the smoke across his tongue before releasing the fumes. This was not the same Deadlock he remembered. It sounded as though the name had been reawakened by scoundrels in order to leverage the fear and respect the name carried. A part of the gunslinger was righteously indignant at his past being unearthed and used for such purposes. How this information had not reached the ears of the other Overwatch operatives he was unsure. Most likely because events had been contained within his old stomping grounds - Deadlock was not threatening large scale assaults. National news could cover the events but not the global scale. Jesse was again thankful for Winston's discretion.

"Monkey has more brains than most men," Jesse drawled out, finishing the cigar and flicking the burnt end off the cliffside. "God bless his forethought."

A new cigar found its way into the gunslinger's hand seconds later. He did not light it immediately. Instead his eyes stared past the cliffs towards the drop ship lights that began to blink on the horizon. The recon team was returning from state side. They would be tired and grumpy - especially the young ones. Though he groaned about it, Jesse had offered to stay behind on this particular mission. He hadn't felt the desire to revisit old stomping grounds so had requested leave of the mission in favor of offering to prepare a meal when they returned. By the looks of it he had half an hour to do so. Hana had been left behind as well but save for four am sleepless nights Jesse had seen hide nor hair of the gamer. The unlit cigar gripped between his teeth, he shoved the communicator into his pocket and rolled off the boulder. They should have some instant meals he could whip together. It wouldn't be a five course meal but at least the recon team wouldn't worry about prepping their own meals after a ten hour flight. Crossing the tarmac, past the lacking docks, he entered the main facility and made sure to open the bay doors for the transport.

"One less thing for them to fret about," he moved away from the docking bay, clanking through the halls to the kitchen. The cigar remained unlit, crushed between his teeth. In the two weeks the team had been gone, the kitchen had become an unfortunate victim to the combination of Jesse and Hana's less than stellar cleaning habits. He moved through the debris piled up and flowing over the top of the trash bin. Mostly empty take out containers and snack bags of varying sizes.

The kitchen itself was an impressive space. An island extended the length of the room. The island held two rangetops and the automatic dishwasher. The sink was directly next to the washer. Set into the wall was the fridge. Next to that was the pantry - a walk in space with a rather tiny door. A round, family style table sat in the middle of the room. There were no windows to speak of.

He went through the cabinets, searching for something, anything to turn into a decent meal for the group. Jesse cursed waiting to the last minute to cook. Creating a meal in fifteen minutes that could feed five hungry operatives would be pushing the cowboy's culinary limits.

"Ramen is in the pantry," Hana appeared on the other end of the kitchen. She was wearing a one piece bunny outfit complete with cottontail and floppy ears. Hidden under the hood were a pair of oversized headphones resting on her shoulders.

"I was thinking more Southern. Home cooked." Jesse rolled his cigar, the motion mimicked in his eyes at the outlandish ensemble. He knew he was getting old when the first thought through his mind was 'Kids these days'.

"We got beans in the pantry," Hana offered. She was digging through the fridge before slamming the door shut with a huff. "Lucio must've drank the last of it. Damnit."

"Last of what?" Jesse dared to ask. The gunslinger sauntered across the space, looking into the pantry. He found the beans and pulled out three cans - red beans. Next he grabbed a box of instant rice.

"My drink. I have it shipped in. You can't find it just anywhere and now it's gone!" She wailed, sinking down to her knees in front of the open pantry as if crying would help the situation.

"Crying over spilled milk missy," Jesse pulled out a hefty pot, reading the instructions on the back of the rice box before shrugging and just dumping hot water from the tap into the pot. The beans followed next. He threw in some salt and pepper. "Do we have any ham by chance?"

"In the fridge. Bottom drawer. Next to the cheese.” Hana sniffled, still slumped in front of the pantry.

"You could clean the trash instead of staring at the pantry all night," Jesse found what he was looking for, pulling out the remaining lunch meat and proceeded to cut it into thin strips, tossing them into the pot as well. The response was Hana raising a hand to her face making a mimicking motion of his words in pantomime before returning to sulking, posture slumped forward. Jesse rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Buck up. Just put your drink on the list and Winston can get ya some more."

"Okay." She sounded defeated.

"Here. We have this." Jesse reached into the pantry, over the absurd bunny ears, pulling out a red labeled drink and placing the container on the counter. "Make due with this until then." Hana turned, glaring at the drink presented. "Stop that. You're an adult, act like one." The gunslinger returned to his pot, stirring the contents and dashing in a few drops of tabasco and garlic powder.

"That's funny coming from you Mr. Drunk every Thursday night." She bit back but grabbed the soda, opening the lid and drinking directly from the bottle.

"Hey now. That's a low blow missy," he shot back. There was hardly any malice in the tone.

"We had to wrap you in a blanket to keep you from hurting yourself," Hana replied with a sideways glance. She has begun setting the ten seat table with paper products.

"That ain't how I remember it," Jesse focused on the pot in front of him. He had been told after the fact that apparently drunk him had thought getting everyone to line dance was a grand idea. Certain members hadn't taken to the notion and the resulting debacle had the gunslinger trying to clamber over Lucio's turntables to play 'proper' music.

"You shouted at Shimada to get the stick out of his ass and dance." She snorted from the table.

"Agree to disagree," the gunslinger offered. He hummed noting that the food in the pot was almost ready.

"You threatened to hog tie Lena if she didn't give you back your hat," Hana continued, counting off on one hand with an impish grin.

"Sounds like it was a fun night. Did ya record any of it?" Jesse shot back.

"Damnit! No. I didn't." Hana crossed her arms over her chest, silently muttering in Korean what the gunslinger could only guess were colorful expletives. A moment later she threw her hands on the air, pulling out a phone from some hidden pocket and began furiously tapping away at the keyboard. "Making a note so next time it happens I can blackmail you."

"You do that missy," he only chuckled in return. If she remembered so be it. If she didn't all the better. Getting older came with the perk of not caring as much about what others' thought. Hana kept to herself after that, grumbling all nonsense in her native tongue, circling around the kitchen table setting out drinks. That done she halfheartedly cleaned the floor and deposited three bags of trash into the chute to the compost. The cowboy was not even going to question what kind of drink it was - he knew where the whiskey was kept. This evening's meal would be no different.

Food prepped and cooked, Jesse left the kitchen to grab a quick smoke before havoc broke loose. He exited the base, the faint noise of the transport landing in the bay echoing against the steel walls. The cigar had stayed tucked between his teeth, chewing on the end out of habit. There were a few empty cargo crates stacking to the far side - left there to be moved into storage. He leaned against them, tucked just out of sight of the docking bay and bit off the other end of his cigar before lighting it. Jesse pulled the communicator out of his pocket, scanning the article highlighted - searching for some hint, some clue as to why now Deadlock had reappeared. Memories of days long past crossed his mind. Troublesome younger days when he'd been wild and reckless. Shoot first and ask questions later. Nothing much had changed. Maybe he had calmed down but that was minimal. He chuckled at the notion of ever being truly tamed. Overwatch came close - they offered him the ability to atone but that mustang spirit was ever present. Smoke rose from the end of his cigar, he pressed the communicator's power, closing the screen and shoving the device into his pocket. Tapping the end of the cigar out, he tossed the half-finished smoke away.

"This is dinner?" The voice of disdain was unmistakable as Hana's. Jesse returned to the kitchen, the table half filled with members. Some chose to eat with everyone else and others merely took food to their room. It was no surprise then when a certain cyborg was not present - his brother was missing as well. Dr. Ziegler and Morrison excused themselves citing a need to discuss the next mission.

"You watched me cook missy. No need to act so surprised," the gunslinger commented, grabbing himself a bowl and taking a seat at the table.

"I'll commend you on having food done when we returned." Winston broke in before Hana could run off on a tirade. "The effort is appreciated." The big ape sounded nothing if not sincere.

"Second that!" Lena exclaimed shoveling food from bowl to mouth.

"Thank you both," Jesse flicking his hat back to the crown of his head smiling at the compliments.

The rest of dinner passed with discussion of the recon. The mission itself had brought little fruit other than what was already confirmed - Vishkar was in the process of moving supplies to a new location in New Mexico. Lena noted that there was suspicion that Talon might be temporarily cooperating with the corporate giant. Again all speculation Winston was clear to reiterate. No mention of Deadlock. Jesse made note but considering how Winston had related the information - secretive and covert - the cowboy wasn't surprised at the lack of news about the gang. By the end of dinner Hana and Lucio left conversing about an old game Hana had discovered a hacked version of, emphatically telling Lucio they needed to record a playthrough featuring the both of them.

"Fans will love it! You can be my guest star!" She beamed, odd bunny ears bouncing as the two left the kitchen.

"I've heard of the game. Are you sure it's two player?" Lucio's voice responded.

"Who cares. You owe me by the way since you drank the last of…" Hana trailed off. The two had walked out of earshot. Lena had started cleaned the kitchen, putting up bowls for Dr. Ziegler, Morrison and Hanzo. Each was labeled and put into the fridge for the members to get at a later time. She announced she was heading to bed, dashing out of the kitchen in a blur. Winston finished pushing the chairs back under the table, turning to leave the kitchen as Jesse started the automatic dishwasher.

"Winston. You got a minute?" Jesse stopped the scientist. The cowboy leaned forward on the counter, the communicator held in between his hands.

"Certainly. What's on your mind?" The ape asked, adjusting his glasses.

"Wanted to thank ya for the article. The discretion was appreciated," Jesse started in, stopping when a look of confusion crossed Winston's face.

"You're most welcome but I'm afraid I don't know what you're speaking of," the scientist answered.

"I got a message from your personal number," Jesse pressed. That Winston was denying knowledge of the communication sent warning bells ringing.

"Do you have the message?" Winston approached the counter, paw out for the communicator Jesse held onto.

"Says it's from you. Where did it come from if you didn't send it?" The cowboy handed over the device and Winston grew quiet, scrolling through the article before handing back the electronic. "Well?"

"It was indeed sent from my personal address. This is troubling. Someone has gotten into our system. I will need to remedy this. Athena will have to run diagnostics," Winston trailed off speaking more to himself and leaving the kitchen at a brisk pace. "Thank you for this information Jesse." The ape called over his shoulder with a wave.

Left in the kitchen alone, glancing over the article, Jesse shoved the device back into his pocket and touched the handle of his revolver. Alone in the kitchen - the noise from the dinner moments before still ringing in his ears - Jesse drummed his fingers against the counter top. Usually he would be out practicing with Morrison and potentially the two brothers but given the status of the mission debriefing, the cowboy wasn't quite sure any of them would be out wanting to practice. With that idea Jesse dug through the fridge and pulled out the three containers. Deadlock lingered at the back of his mind and Winston's reaction was unnerving. He balanced them on one hand, the other working the doors as he moved through the base. First stop the med bay.

None of those who returned the recon had been injured. Jesse had a fair guess he would find the good doctor working away in her sanctuary. The others may nag him about being overly motherly sometimes but being southern meant ensuring those around him were sufficiently taken care of - this included eating. Delivering food to those of the group who were enveloped in their work was a habitual act at this point. Jesse became a sort of food fairy and the butt of a few jokes because of this tendency. He had also become something of a guest star in Hana's streams, viewers betting virtual points to see when and if Jesse would deliver their precious D.va her meal. The whole idea was ridiculous to the gunslinger but at least Hana ate something more than chips and that awful green soda.

"Dr. Ziegler? You in here darlin?" He knocked on the open med bay door, glancing around the immaculate space. Angela was a stickler for clean. Perk of being a doctor Jesse supposed. The area was split into three segments - one with cabinets, drawers, and shelves containing all manner of medical equipment and prescriptions, another section housed four curtained off, individualized medical units complete with bed, monitors, IV stands, etc. and the third partition was the fully decked out surgery unit. Jesse was familiar with that portion of the Med Bay. The nerves connecting to his prosthetic tingled - phantom pain. Came with the territory of losing a limb. He was comfortable with ignoring the sensation but the Med Bay always caused the nerves to remind him what he had lost.

"In the back." There was a small crash before the lithe woman appeared from behind a row of cabinets. "I was just checking on some samples. Oh did you bring me dinner?" She was holding a stack of folders in one hand, pen twirling between her fingers.

"Yes ma'am." He returned with a slight tilt of the lips. "Thank Lena though. Lil' miss portioned it out for ya. I'm just the humble delivery boy." Jesse handed over the plastic container.

"Usually I'm the one taking care of everyone," she answered with a sincere smile. She shoved the pen behind an ear, her free hand extended to lightly touch his forearm in thanks. "After that flight I appreciate the gesture. Red beans and rice?" She asked looking into the container.

"Southern special," Jesse nodded. "It might still be a little hot."

"I don't suppose you brought a spoon with you?" Angela chuckled at how the cowboy's face fell before Jesse shifted, standing up straight.

"Shit. I knew I forgot something. I'll be right back with that," he made to leave but a hand to his shoulder stopped him. Glancing over at the woman he raised a brow in question.

"Don't worry about it. I think I have some utensils hidden away in here somewhere." Angela waved the container with a light laughter. "Go finish your delivery. The Commander and Shimada?"

"Yes ma'am. I should probably get spoons first."

"I would advise that," she said still smiling, shifting the papers from one arm to the other, repositioning the container. Jesse headed towards the door, waving a hand at the doctor. Quickly the cowboy returned to the kitchen, snatched up three spoons. Once more heading towards the practice yard he still stopped and dropped off one spoon for the doctor. She laughed at his cheeky grin but thanked him none the less before wishing him good night. Returning the phrase, Jesse walked the halls of the base from memorization.

A good year had passed since the initial recall. He'd answered for lack of anything better to do. Life on the run had grown tedious. The promise of returning to routine and familiar faces had been a carrot he couldn't ignore. First few months had been rough reorganizing and recruiting. Morrison's reappearance had thrown the group into a frenzy just as things had settled into a rhythm. Then Shimada one and two had shown up - one all but dragging two to join. Once that dust settled the base fell into a pattern. It became custom for Jesse and Morrison to practice at the range near sundown - recalling old memories with a strange fondness and pain. Certain subjects remained off the table. Blackwatch. Reyes. They had an unspoken agreement to not delve too deeply into the past.

The elder Shimada joined their practice sessions less than a month after joining their ranks. Before that the man was a hermit - rarely heard and even more rarely seen. The archer had been silent at first - choosing to stay to the far corner of the range. Jesse had been the one to cut the silence, inviting the man to join their conversation and indulge in a few beers. Reluctant or just stubborn, the Shimada had taken some convincing. Jesse could be patient. The Commander even more so. The trio indulged in impromptu shooting competitions. The score, as far as the cowboy could recall, involved Morrison in first then Shimada and finally himself. Sober Jesse didn't mind but drinking Jesse ran his mouth and could not always foot the bill. Still the time at the range turned into something Jesse looked forward too. After a hard mission or bad day because he had slept on his arm funny the thought of just man time with beer and guns made the cowboy smile - a spring to his step.

The sound of a rifle pinging against a metallic target caught Jesse's ears first. He swiped his hand over the keypad, the door sliding open with a hiss. On the other side Jesse was quick to spot Morrison trying out a rifle that wasn't his usual heavy pulse fire. Next to the older man stood the resident archer. For once his whole chest was covered. A pair of empty beer cans and Shimada's ever present sake gourd sat on the table.

Raising the containers, Jesse silently motioned to the food. Only Shimada nodded an acknowledgement. Both spoons and meals were placed on the table, the cowboy crushed the empty beers against his belt buckle before chucking them into the trash. Shimada had already returned to staring down the range, observing the way in which the rifle fired under Morrison's capable hands. The gun was an antique. According to Winston the story went that instead of a monetary reward for a job well done, Morrison had accepted this piece of outdated weaponry instead. 'Nostalgia purposes' was the only reason anyone could pull out of Morrison concerning the rifle.

"Damn thing keeps jamming," Morrison growled, opening the chamber to glance inside. He flicked the safety into place, shaking his head in annoyance.

"It ain't ejecting?" Jesse questioned.

"Stove piping. I've informed Winston of the issue and he said he'd remedied the problem." Morrison sat on a nearby crate, throwing one leg up on his knee and beginning to break down the gun. He removed the barrel, stared down and sighed.

"How bad?" The cowboy grabbed the barrel when Morrison handed it over as an answer. Jesse whistled. "To be fair this probably wasn't designed with firing live ammunition in mind." The Commander incredulously glared at the gunslinger.

"Winston informed me he made the necessary modifications," Morrison took back the barrel.

"Damn thing was a prop. It was supposed to fire blanks at silicon dummies."

"It jams on the seventh shot. Must be the ejector malfunctioning." Morrison was pointedly ignoring Jesse's none too subtle jabs. The cowboy sighed, arms coming up to cross his chest before speaking.

"Did you put a full clip in each time?"

"Of course." Was the indignant reply.

"That's the problem then. You can't do that. Sure it carries 99 rounds but to prevent jamming or backfiring you should only load a clip with 95 rounds. You're overloading the rifle." He truly hated sounded old and that statement was doing just the opposite.

Morrison made a noise as a reply. He had already gone back to working out how to remove the cartridges from the barrel. The sound - half grunt and half growl - was as close to an admittance of Jesse's knowledge as the cowboy would receive.

"Give it here." Shimada's voice pipped up. Jesse and Morrison glanced over, puzzled expressions on their faces. They'd gotten to arguing like good old boys. The archer speaking up brought them out of the petty squabble. "Let me see the barrel." Shimada restated with a slight force behind the words. Morrison handed over the barrel. The archer took the shaft of an arrow with no head and began shoving it down the barrel. After a few seconds, the spent and dead cartridges fell to the concrete floor with a clang. "It is not fixed but it will fire." Shimada handed back the barrel and Morrison went about putting the rifle back together. The Commander offered a nod of appreciation.

"Well aren't you Mr. Fix-it," Jesse said with a grin. His hands found their way around his belt once more.

"The Shimada Clan dealt in arms. I learned a thing or two." Hanzo said it almost like talking down to a child.

"Ain't ever seen you fire something that wasn't that bow," Jesse shot back mildly offended. The archer was already paying the gunslinger little attention having gone back to fixing heads onto the new shafts that had come in with the last shipment to the Watch Point.

"What is your idiom? Do not assume." The smirk on the voice was apparent even if Hanzo was preoccupied - eyes focused on the arrow shaft in his hands.

"He's got you there kid," Morrison grunted and leaned the antique rifle against the table - walking and picking his trusted firearm from the rake near the range entrance. The older man laid a hand on Jesse's shoulder with a soft chuckle at the cowboy's expense.

"They also say don't bite the hand that feeds ya." Jesse quipped back. If they were going to get into a game of idioms, he wouldn't mind showing the archer how creative southerners could be.

"This your concoction Jesse?" Morrison interjected, the silent reprimand to stop bickering like children apparent in tone alone. Pot calling the kettle black but Jesse took the bait. The Commander grabbed a container, opening and spooning through the contents.

"Yup! Red beans and rice. Just like mama used to make," Jesse smirked, hands looping into his belt. His cigar rolled between his teeth as his chest puffed a bit with pride. Hanzo kept his head down, eyes rolling at the display.

"Not bad." Morrison said. "You started cooking last minute." The cowboy just shrugged - neither admitting or denying the accusation.

"Texas specialty?" Shimada questioned, nosing through his own container.

"Southern. Louisiana actually." Jesse corrected. Hanzo appeared to care less, eating the food in silence. The cowboy bit back a sigh. Even half a year later pleasing everyone was impossible. Jesse could not deny he had been attempting to break past that wall since the Shimada brothers had joined but Hanzo was tougher to crack than an armadillo's behind. Food was the universal language. Not to the archer. The gunslinger would easily have shoved the food down Hanzo's throat if only to get a reaction from the other man. "So… Y'all down for a round of horse?" He offered to break the silence.

"What's the bet?" Morrison questioned. Finished with the food the empty container was set down on the table, tossing the spoon inside.

"What is always is. Loser gets next round of ammo. Speaking of which, you got the goods Shimada?" Jesse popped out another cigar, casually chewing on the end. Hanzo kicked a box from beside his chair, the rattling inside a clear indication to the contents. Graciously Jesse dug through the metal box, finding the bullets he needed and handing off the rest to Morrison. With a flick of the wrist, the cowboy pulled out three speed loaders, stocked them and set them back into the canisters at his hip.

"Same as last time." Morrison stated more than questioned. The rifle once more in his hands, working to fix the sight right quick.

"Age before beauty." Jesse grinned, motioning for Morrison to start. Visor not in place the annoyance that ticked Morrison's brow was clear. The older man keyed in a few commands, the targets at the end of the range beginning to move in sporadic paths.

"Three bullets. Three head shots." Morrison lined up the targets, aimed and three targets fell backwards with a clang. The machine flipped them back into place.

"Not bad Kowalski," the cigar rolled to the other side of his mouth. The barb brought a glare from Morrison but Jesse was a already focused on the dancing targets. Shooting from the hip, he copied the challenge - Three shots. Three targets. For added emphasis he couldn't resist blowing on the barrel of his revolver.

"Commander." Morrison corrected the gunslinger - his tone a clear indication this was a joke that had already run its course.

"Nah. Like mine better. Suits ya," Jesse snickered. He glanced at the archer who'd been silent through the conversation. Hanzo was standing, Storm Bow raised, arrow notched and following the target. Jesse couldn't deny watching the man work was fascinating. Despite using an archaic weapon himself the bow was an artifact from those fantasy movies the younger generation enjoyed. The skill and strength could only be fathomed. Jesse had entertained the idea of asking to attempt archery but there was a certain severance with which Hanzo handled his bow. It wasn't just a weapon. It was an extension of the man's arm - an integral part of his anatomy. Asking to even touch the weapon felt like crossing a line. His fingers danced across the carved butt of his revolver - Peacekeeper. A name that was one part ironic and one part symbolic.

"Jesse." Commanding, the sound of a superior barking orders for an underling to come to attention. "Jesse." That broke through the revere. He glanced at Morrison was a slight sheepish smile. "You're turn cowboy."

"Um yeah. What's the challenge again?" Jesse questioned. He'd been lying if he didn't ask for clarification. Morrison raised a hand, motioning for Shimada to explain.

"Blind shot. From memory. Four targets. Five shots." The archer reiterated with none too subtle annoyance evident in the tone. Hanzo was clutching his bow in one hand, the other twirling a trick arrow absently.

"We can slow down the targets if you need," Morrison shouldered his rifle at the jab, inputting the command to temper the targets' erratic movements.

"I feel like y'all just want to see me fail." Jesse snorted. "Speed them up. I'll show you cuckolds how a real man shoots." Twirling the revolver with a flourish, Jesse aimed down the barrel, memorizing the targets he wanted to hit. The world fell away. All that remained was his breath, his essence, the targets and the gun resting in his hands. The comfort of steel and lacquer. The sound of his heartbeat was thunderous, rhythm in sync with each breath. Exhale. Heartbeat. Inhale. Heartbeat. His eyes drifted shut, mental picture show off the target's' movements dashing across his internal sights. One. Two. Three. Four. Five shots. Seconds had turned into an eternity and when Jesse opens his eyes again it is with a triumphant grin curled around his cigar. "That's how it is done boys."

"No. Look again," Morrison had his arms crossed, a taunting expression across a scarred face. His rifle was now laying on the makeshift table beside a new half empty beer can.

"You missed." Shimada stated, rather blandly, earning a questioning glance from the cowboy.

"Nah. You're mistaken I hit one, two, three…" Quiet, Jesse counted again the targets that had been knocked over. One. Two. Three. Wait. One. Two…

"Well I'm damned," Jesse scratched at the back to his head - revolver having been reloaded and shoved back into its holster.

"The conveyor belt didn't need to be shot up like that. Enjoy explaining your misfire to Winston," Morrison's remark sounded off handed but there was obvious sarcasm laced through his voice. "Seeing as how you effectively broke the range, I think that ends the game."

"Guess this means I am buying the next round then huh?"

"That was the agreement," Shimada said.

"Indeed. I'll be sure the list is in your room by the evening," Morrison was already taking stock of his own ammo, noting it down on his communicator.

"Y'all are vultures," Jesse snickered, taking the hit in stride.

The trio continued through easy banter - maintaining a safe distance from talk of the mission Morrison and Shimada had returned from. Something had gone wrong. They weren't opening up to Jesse and the cowboy kept away from the subject. Later he could confront Morrison about the tight lipped matter. They instead compared the finer points of varying fire arms - both past and present. Shimada was quiet for the most part, sitting, affixing sonic tips to a few shafts but the man was listening indicated by a one or two worded comment here and there. Morrison attempted firing the antique again with the few rounds left. The gun didn't jam this time around and Jesse did not hide the self-satisfied smirk. The cowboy was rewarded when the butt of the rifle smacked against his shoulder as Morrison called out a good night, heading to bed. The soldier took the empty containers and utensils with him - old rifle and new strapped across his back. The get up made the man look like the spitting image of a poor excuse for an action figure.

In the silence that followed, Jesse attempted to jury rig a quick fix for the conveyor belt but the thing had been shot clean. Even if he'd missed the target he hadn't missed the shot. Through and through. No way around repairing the belt other than a clean replacement and no hiding the mistake from Winston. Frustrated, his boot connected with the machine earning a muttered curse as the metal kicked back. He left the range after that, waving a hand at the archer over his back. Shimada had gone back to fashioning more arrows. The man would likely stay at the range through the night. Jesse had once found the archer practicing just before dawn, wondering out loud if Shimada ever slept. The response had been a huff of ire then the man had left the range with a curt word in Japanese. Jesse had stood in the range after that, confused as to what he had said watching Shimada leave in a huff. Despite having come to Overwatch to offer his skills the archer had kept himself. Jesse had on occasion offered an olive branch in the form of range practice, casual conversation, and food but none of them seemed to break that shell. The cowboy has made the mistake of encouraging the archer to let Jesse play music at the range once - music was no longer allowed at the range by Morrison's orders.

Jesse stifled a yawn, scratching the underside of his chin and pulled out the communicator. The screen read the time as 2208. Not too late but enough to warrant most other members were probably already sequestered in their respective rooms. The cowboy stopped by the kitchen, grabbing a handle of whiskey that was one shot shy of being full. He raised a brow. The bottle had been unopened when he had stored it yesterday. Who was sneaking tastes? "Probably the little gremlin." He had to laugh at the idea of Hana trying the disgusting drink and the face she had probably made when it burned going down. He twisted the cap off, taking a sip before spitting out the contents. "The hell?" The open bottle raised to his nose, Jesse scoffed and glared at the container. Ten minutes later found the cowboy banging on Hana's door with his fist demanding an explanation.

"Oh hey sheriff!" Lucio answered with a grin.

"Don't hey me. Where is the gremlin?" Jesse stared over the medic's head into the room. Most members at the base chose a single room as their private quarters. Since so few had answered recall the former officers' quarters were quick to be claimed by the first returning operatives. In Hana Song's case she and Lucio had remodeled and turned an old bunk room - in its heyday the space slept easy fifteen new recruits - into a personal study/living/gaming space where they could hide from the adults. One corner contained Lucio's sound equipment. Another held a mountain of obnoxious sponsor donated items - bags, jackets, two chairs, and an impressive full size plush replica of Hana's meka. How had that even gotten into base without anyone noticing? The other contained a set of two twin beds each pressed together to form one bed piled high with frogs and the other a link monstrosity. That left the duel computer and entertainment set up with Hana plopped down before the display. "Hey little missy! I'm talking to you!" Jesse barked over Lucio's head.

"Whoa sheriff? What's the beef?" The medic questioned, shuffling his feet together. Without skates on the unconscious motion of moving fluid caused strange nervous ticks in the kid.

"She has my whiskey in there. Traded it out for this foul tasting soda. Trying to pull the wool over my eyes!" Jesse continued, his voice raised in irritation to be heard over the no doubt raucous game sounds echoing in this ridiculous headphones.

"Not trying! I did!" Hana called back her shoulder eyes never leaving the screen. Lucio nervously smiled, edging away from the door. The cowboy was a boiling ball of annoyance and the medic was feeling the beginnings of a thunder storm. "Is that Brokeback?"

"Damn straight! What did you do with my whiskey?" Lucio coughed, trying to cover his sudden snort of laughter. Jesse raised a brow but Lucio just shook his head, turning away, biting his lip to keep from tearing up.

"What whiskey? Oh you mean the piss you call alcohol? I stole it. Traded you. It's in that bottle there." Her finger indicated where a plastic container sat forgotten by the foot of her unkempt bed.

"Piss? No more than that God awful green swill you consume on a regular basis." The cowboy shot back. She waved a hand over her head dismissively. "Trading usually involves two parties little miss." Jesse grumbled, pushing past the still shit grinning medic and snatching the bottle.

"What's eating you sheriff?" Lucio questioned having taken back his seat on a bean chair beside Hana.

"Nothing. That's the problem." Was the tart reply. The collective groan from two over grown kids caused a grin to smear itself across Jesse's face. "So why steal a man's whiskey?" He approached the duo, watching the bright lights of the gaming console and Hana's face scrunched in concentration.

"Wanted to try the stuff you're crazy over," it was the most matter of fact statement.

"Just ask next time. 'Sides you ain't old enough," the cowboy unscrewed the cap, sniffing to ensure the contents were alcohol before indulging in a generous draught.

"Old enough somewhere," she snorted, running the character in screen into a rundown temple. "You wouldn't have let me if I'd asked."

"Don't use my words against me little miss," Jesse wasn't angry but definitely irked. "You didn't ask."

"Can I wear your hat?" Lucio glanced from one to the other, silent, caught in the middle.

"What? No. No one touches the hat," the look Hana gave him was victorious - clear as day. "You know that ain't a fair question." The bottle was moved to the other hand, the cowboy squatting down between the odd couple and tipping his hat back on his head.

"Fine. Can I borrow your guitar? Lucio said he'd teach me." Lucio waved his hands in the air, shaking his head.

"Don't drag me into your standoff." The musician chuckled, rubbing the back of his head.

"Only if I get to see the train wreck that'll be," eyebrow raised in question. He drawled out the statement. Bottle was moved between half bent knees.

"Deal." Hana nodded, holding out a hand, bubble gum popping out from between her teeth.

"Deal!" Returning the shake neither paid much attention to Lucio's half babbled complaints at being left out of this decision. The medic settled for grabbing another remote, waiting for the file on screen to save before turning off the console and switching games.

"We were going to play a party game with the stream but-"

"Ready to get your butt kicked kid?" Hana mimicked a southern accent terribly, interrupting and addressing the cowboy.

"You impugning my skills?" He jest in return. Hana smirks. Lucio's explains the basics of the game while handing over a controller to Jesse. It is close to 0200 when the cowboy stumbles out of the room. The plastic bottle with only a third remaining - the rest settled in his belly, burning through his bloodstream. Hana had turned off her stream halfway through the game, citing she was annoyed with the viewers constantly pestering for Jesse to speak choice quotes. One too many "I don't know how to quit you" requests had the gamer flustered and she had simply shut down the stream. They had ended the game with no clear winner. Hana claiming victory but the screen flashed Lucio's name. Jesse didn't argue, merely made some offhanded comment on being out of practice and left. His metallic hand patting the top of the girl's head as he had departed.

The halls of Gibraltar were silent, empty, lonesome. In the quiet he hummed a broken tune, prosthetic pressed against the wall, guiding him by memory to his room. His hazy mind pressed in the key to the door from repetition. The door opened to reveal the aftermath of a tornado. His serape was discarded to the side, half landing on the desk chair. The bottle found a new home dropped to the floor by the entrance. His hat fell to the desk, covering the keyboard of the console. The blue screen coming to life with the sudden disturbance. He ignored the soft light, tugging the button up shirt over his head, fuzzy mind forgetting to undo the top and resulting in a comical display of cowboy versus clothing. Jesse finagled out of the shirt, lost in the pile of other dirty, crumpled attire.

Chest bare he stumbled into the shower, kicking out of jeans, boots and boxers, turning the water to its hottest. If he wasn't a lobster by the end of the shower then it wasn't a good one. Jesse glanced into the mirror while the water heated, running in the background, white noise to his mind. He examined the beginning of dark circles, the slight hint of lines around his eyes, the unkempt stray hairs that jutted this way and that across his face. He needed a trim. Running a hand through his hair, he clambered into the shower, poking at the minute amount of midlife flab forming across otherwise vain and young stomach. Amusing himself, he felt the water encompass him, soothing the edge off the alcohol and assumed poses he had often seen the old German indulge in to show off. The display brought  dry chuckle from his throat. He finished cleaning, washing away the grime and toweling dry.

After donning a fresh pair of loose pants he fumbled for his cigar tin, chewing the end off and setting the smoke aside for the morning. He would need it. Even drunk Jesse prepared for the hangover. He yawned, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, bare feet grabbing his jeans to dig out the communicator. Winston did not approve of what Lucio had done to the device but Jesse was pleased with the adjustments. With a flick of his finger, the cowboy brought up a music player, thumbing through the tracks until he found his treasure. Hitting play, he curled up under the blankets, softly muttering along with the lyrics as exhaustion wrapped around him like an old quilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships will happen. Eventually. Just not right away. Will add more tags as things happen but, as it stands right now, I don't want to give away too much with the tags.
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!


	2. A Young Gun's Dream of Growing Up to Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard.

_Searing winds in the driest atmosphere imaginable. Rock formations carved by the screams of midnight banshees across the desert. One hand held his ridiculous hat in place. The other was pulling the bandana over his mouth - blotting out the sands that attempted to invade his mouth, nostrils, eyes, and ears. Simple assignment - meet the courier at the drop off point, pick up the crates and return to base. No one said anything about a summer storm. There wasn't even rain to bring down the temperature. Just heat, wind and gritty, get everywhere sand. Bridges, Harper and Jacobs drove behind him in a separate vehicle. Always drive in a straight line. One set of tracks. The illusion of one car instead of many. Age old trick that worked time and again._

_Didn't mean he was thrilled about being point. They drove beaten down relics from decades past - four wheel, gasoline powered monstrosities. But older vehicles didn't require on board computers or built in communicators. That's why they used the vehicles for pickups. They couldn't be tracked and not many people could keep the ancient relics running. A major downside to using them was the distinct lack of canopy._

_The handheld radio on his dashboard crackles to life, the voice coming through carried away with the storm. Another relic of a bygone era but no one would be looking to track outdated equipment._

_"Can't hear shit. Repeat," he clicked the send switch, shouting into the radio._

_"I said my old bitch blows harder than this storm," Harper's words crackled through the radio._

_"That ain't a nice thing to say about Lydia," Jesse falsely chided in return._

_"Can it. She's a bitch and y'all know it!" Harper's voice snapped through static again. Jesse chuckled, not bothering with a response. When the man started ranting about his old woman everyone knew to just let it run its course. No one adored that woman more than Harper._

_"Clear channel. We got a mile before we reach the drop." Authoritative, no nonsense - that was Bridges. "Jesse you got eyes in front - spot the building yet?"_

_Through the dirt and sand he could make out the faint silhouette of their old haunt. The image rippled with the storm - shifting in and out of view - easily mistaken for a mirage. A biker bar since forgotten. Still it made for the perfect drop location. Locals assumed the place abandoned and someone had spread rumors it was haunted. Save for headstrong kids looking to prove their machismo the place stayed deserted. In this storm the building would be downright lonesome._

_"Sighted." He affirmed, hands tight around the steering wheel. Driving the cumbersome machine was a talent and a half. Keeping the beast going in a straight line as the storm had other notions was a miracle._

_"Remember. We get in. We grab the crates. We get out." Bridges continued barking orders. "Harper keep eyes on the horizon. Jesse and Jacobs load up the cargo. I'll watch the backside and for God's sake be gentle this time! Don't need another concussion mine taking out half the damn convoy."_

_"I said I slipped!" Harper snarled behind their impromptu commander's orders. Jesse chuckled but gave his acknowledgement, shutting off the radio as they neared the abandoned biker den._

_He parked the wrangler near a row of rusted out hover bikes, tugging the bandana tighter around his mouth. Sand still gritted between his teeth and rubbed into the soft scruff around his chin. The other car stopped nearby - Bridges backing the vehicle up and clambering out to drop down the tailgate of the truck. Harper and Jacobs exited the truck with the former disappearing around the bar, already on alert and patrolling --- shotgun held in one hand with infrared binoculars in the other. Jacobs walked over, handing Jesse a locked and loaded pistol, keeping the massive rifle for himself._

_"This place used to be the hot spot for a good dosey do," Jacobs' suggestive wink unmistakable, elbowing Jesse in the ribs with a dry laugh._

_"Jacobs! Shut your trap and get the crates." Bridges now stood with a pulse rifle hoisted against his chest, scanning the surroundings. The man's obnoxious belt buckle caught the few rays of sun breaking through the storm. "They're supposed to have been dropped behind the bar."_

_"Got it boss!" Jesse acknowledged, voice muffled by the bandana, dashing into the building with Jacobs' heavier booted steps clambering behind._

_"Kid you got a bee hive up your ass?" The older man came around the entrance, doors blown away years ago. The insides of the building eked through and through with stale air and stale beer. How long had it been since this place had seen alcohol?_

_"No." Jesse grumbled. He was the young one of the bunch - the runt, the new kid, the punching bag, the butt of every joke. He may be the one responsible for the majority of designing the covert nature of operations but his age held him back. Some in the gang mumbled about being shown up. All the bravado of the older members did not hide the annoyance a choice few felt towards his age. Jesse was useful. That was how he survived._

_"You say so kid," massive shoulders shrugged as the man slapped the rifle on the dusty bar counter. The bang of metal on polished wood was unnaturally loud. Jesse jerked his head up, prepared to scold the older man with a look but the banging came again. The sound wasn't just Jacobs’ carelessness. The noise was insistent. The rifle whirled to life, warming up and the banging continued --- harsher, sharper, demanding…_

"Jesse! Report!" The angry sound of Morrison banging on his door jerked the cowboy awake, his body sitting bolt upright and nearly smashing his throbbing head against the shelving unit pinned to the wall. At some point he had managed to go from using the bed as intended to being half draped over the edge, his head pressed awkwardly against the wall and feet limp against the floor.

"I'm up! I'm up!" Jesse barked back, head coming forward, falling into his hands - the cool metal of his prosthetic chasing the edge off the impending migraine.

"0900 report for debriefing." Came the curt order and Jesse scoffed. Some things never changed. Still barking out orders as though he had never left.

"Got it, Kowalski," the cowboy bit down a yawn, stretching, shoulders and back, popping out kinks and knots. Sleeping funny meant for uncomfortable morning routines. He couldn't remember, but usually he only ended ass backwards in bed from a terrible night. Combining too much whiskey into the mix and he was bemoaning his circumstances as the headache started raging. Cotton mouth was the next to follow. Then the god awful sensation of floating too high. Hangovers were never his forte.

One glance at the communicator, music cut off while he slept, the screen read 0816. Just enough time to properly shower. Half dragging, half sauntering, he scared up a clean plaid, tossing the shirt, his serape and jeans from the previous day on the bed. He went through the motions of washing, conditioning, and scrubbing beard and hair, soaping down in an attempt to clear away the clingy feeling still fogging his mind. The water helped. Cleaned, dressed, face given a quick once over and a comb haphazardly run across his head, he reached for the communicator - the screen read 0832. There was an unread message icon flashing under the time. He couldn't remember hearing the device beep its notification.

Opening the message, Jesse was curious about the tagline: _Concerning the Deadlock Gang._ He knew the sender without reading the information. Winston had been busy. With a flick of the wrist, the monitor to his console turned on and stirred awake. There was a soft grinding noise as disused parts worked against each other.

“You and me both,” he muttered, rubbing at the joint between prosthetic and flesh. He must have slept on the appendage weird.

The screen sprang to life, glowing a faint dusty orange in the room, the message icon flashing in the corner. He clicked and watched the full correspondence envelop the display.

**Recipient:** 10.29M.76  
**Status:** Urgent - For Your Eyes Only  
**Subject:** _Concerning the Deadlock Article  
_**Message:**

After much investigation, I've determined that the article concerning the Deadlock Gang is both true and false. The article comes from Santa Rosa. I believe you're familiar with the place. Following the briefing, please come see me in my lab. We have much to discuss.

**Addendum:** Morrison is aware of this.

So the old man knew. Jesse groaned at the news. Giving Morrison another reason to hover investigate was more trouble. Angela was going to hang the cowboy out to dry if this devolved into the former Commander getting hurt. Again. Accompanying the annoyance was frustration. His intention had been to question Winston about the news article Jesse had assumed was sent for his eyes only. Deadlock was his past, his burden. Involving others in Overwatch with something so personal made him feel almost violated. A saying about the best intentions came to mind. Then the scientist had all but panicked, the correspondence had been enough to sequester Winston to his lab for several hours into early morning. Athena had probably already taken care of the intrusion.

The communicator chirped startling him. The chair scraped against the floor as he stood up, scooping up the device. 0853. He had seven minutes. He was going to be late. The door to the room slid open with a strained hiss. The watchpoint had been the home to its sole occupant for some time. It made sense the place was starting to show its disuse. He opted to leave his serape behind, discarded on the floor. Accompanying the clothing were his spurs. He hadn't been awake long enough to bother messing with the accessories. That, combined with his still aching head, meant meant the familiar jingle would cause his teeth to grind in pain. Maybe once he’d had some coffee. After the briefing.

He groaned at the thought, shoving his hands into his pockets, meandering down the empty hallway towards the designated room. The communicator, tucked into a back pocket, buzzed. He didn't need to look at the device to know it contained a message from Morrison telling him he better not have fallen back asleep ——hangover be damned. Past the kitchen ,the coffee maker was running and the smell floated tantalizingly close ,past the strange cargo hold turned kids’ recrec room, and up one flight of stairs, he sidled into the briefing room. All eyes turned to him.

“Mornin’!” Flicking the tip of his hat back with a toothy smile and wave he greeted the crew. The response that he he received was mixed. While Lena and Angela offered good natured waves or salutes, he got a cold shouldered gesture from Hana, a raised brow from Shimada and a grunt from from the grouch.

“Morning yourself, Eastwood,” Lucio's pension for nicknames was amazing sometimes. This wasn't that time.

“I told ya not to call me that,” Jesse’s tone wasn't outright harsh but this wasn't the first time Lucio had tried to make the nickname stick. “I ain't that old or crotchety yet.”

“Whatever you say,” the DJ waved the comment away, undeterred.

Jesse grabbed the nearest seat, pulling out and swinging it around, straddling the back of the chair before laying his arms across the top - prosthetic on the bottom. Winston stood on the other side of the rectangular table, clearing his throat when it appeared everyone was settled.

“Yes. Well. We recently received some news concerning potential illegal weapons trafficking in North America. We believe there may be stragglers from formerly dismantled gangs looking to create a disruption in the local governments.” Winston stopped, waiting for questions.

“If it is local then why have the government not reacted?” Hana questioned. Always the upstart, constantly curious.

“Normally, yes, but the reports indicate that this group intents to take over a larger arena——namely the state or states surrounding.” Winston replied.

During this Jesse noted the slight steam drifting from his right - a playful tumbleweed rolling across the white surface of a coffee mug placed to his side. He grabbed the cup, sipped and found the contents to be tea stirred with just the right amount of sugar and milk. Glancing straight to the most probable culprit, Jesse nodded silent thanks in Lena’s direction. The woman was quick to catch his eye and shook her head in the negative, mouthing _it wasn't me_. The petite Brit jerked a thumb across the table and indicated the last person Jesse would have expected. Shimada was turned away, focusing on the conversation between Winston and the gremlin, back half turned to Jesse with one hand resting on the table as the other held a plain black mug. There was no tell--tale string for a tea bag so Jesse assumed it was loose leaf. Bagged tea was something only the filthy American enjoyed——even Lena would give him trouble time and again.

Still Jesse gave the archer’s back a silent nod of thanks before sipping at the beverage. Coffee would've been preferred, but beggars and all. The warm liquid coated the back of his throat, chasing the edge of the cotton mouth off. There was the light taste of ginger to the taste hidden beneath the sweetness. Jesse chuckled into the cup but damn if the tea wasn't a hangover cure. He turned his attentions back to Winston, noting the scientist was flustered by something Hana may have said. Winston was wiping his glasses with his hand——a nervous tick.

“We're janitors now?” Hana huffed out, bubble gum popping loud in the quiet.

“Kid. Quiet,” Morrison barked. Hana glared at the old man but slammed her mouth shut, arms crossed across her chest and that ridiculous bunny one--piece.

“To continue,” Winston clears his throat, effectively cutting through the silent stand--off between the old soldier and the upstart gamer. “Athena is gathering more information regarding the whereabouts, strength and movements of this organization. I will keep you up to date on any new developments. Athena believes we should have the necessary information in a little less than a month's time. I will be sending out a report by the end of the week with further details. I felt it prudent to inform everyone about this disturbance.” Winston paused, eyes scanning the room for any questions,hesitating on the cowboy for a moment.

“Does this organization have a name?” This came from the archer, brow raised, casting a fleeting sidelong glance in Jesse's direction. Jesse shifted, looking into the tea swirling around, ignoring the weight in the pit of his stomach. Discretion in the Watch Point was a laughing matter.

“It does not appear so no,” Winston responded, , perhaps a bit too clipped.

“It seems prudent to uncover more about this group’s workings and their motives. A name can come later.” Morrison cut in.

“It would be prudent to have a name to track more accurately,” Shimada retorted, free hand connecting with the table.

“As far as reports indicate this group does not have a moniker,” Winston cleared his throat, putting an end to the potential eruption.

Tense silence fell as Lena encouraged Winston to continue with the meeting, , pressing a hand to Winston's forearm in a comforting gesture. Jesse watched as Shimada stewed. Morrison was known for being all business but something in the old soldier’s tone didn’t seem to sit right with Shimada. The archer's slightly narrowed eyes, dropped brow and stiff shoulders were a clear indication. Jesse felt like he’d missed something important.

“Winston, love, where are these reports coming in from?” Lena piped in, , all energy.

“As of this morning, it would appear that they are concentrated around the south--western portion of the United States.” Another glance at the cowboy. At this point Jesse was a combination of annoyed and flattered. He wasn't exactly a precious butterfly but he appreciated Winston's concern for keeping the past in the past. Digging up dirty laundry didn’t seem to be Winston’s intention.

“That's your old stomping ground, right Sheriff?” Lucio glanced over at Jesse eagerly. So much for discretion.

“Yeah, reckon it was,” Jesse responded with a forced chuckle, mug placed half finished on the table, resisting the urge to scratch the back of neck in nervous energy. Winston had enough anxiety for the both of them.

“I heard they ride horses everywhere and live in rectangular tents,” Lucio was snapping his fingers, searching for the word.

“Teepees and no, haven't for a long time,” Jesse answered. Hana and Lena were stifling the other's snorting laugh at the DJ’s expense.

“Yeah, I knew that. It was a joke. Anyway, didn't you run with, uh... who was it again-”

“I don't see what bearin’ that has on the current situation,” Jesse cut off the inquiry. Lucio gave a curious, stunned jerk of the head. The tone was more clipped than what the medic was used to hearing from the cowboy. “Sorry kid. Bad memories. Didn't mean to snap at ya.”

“No, no. You're fine. I shouldn't have brought it up. Heat of the moment.” Lucio gave a nervous shrug, rubbing the top of one arm and looking away abashed.

“I think now would be as good a time as any to end this briefing. I’ll be sending out a summary of Athena’s research at the end of the week. You’re dismissed.” Winston's voice was rushed, trying to hurry along past the awkward tension. Chairs scraped against the ground as each attendee took their leave.

Hana and Lucio raced out——the former still sulking after being shouted down while the later draped an arm about her shoulders, chatting excitedly about showing her a new track. Anything to hide away the anxious undercurrent the audio medic still felt. Lena bounced behind the duo, asking to listen to the music as well. The rest exited to their own ends——Shimada making it a point to leave well ahead of Morrison and the good doctor. Jesse stayed behind, staring down at the now empty mug in his hands. When had he finished the drink? The ceramic still held a slight warmth from its contents. The ginger had helped and warmed his belly.

“Good presentation you gave there,” the cowboy opened, swinging a leg over the chair and rounding the table to slap a hand against Winston's broad shoulder.

“Oh. Thank you. I must apologize for how it turned out.” Winston hefted a sigh behind his glasses.

“Nah. Don't worry yourself about little ol’ me. Between speedy, the gremlin and frogger, this place is full of clucking hens,” Jesse offered, a sincere smile cracking his face. Winston responded with a noise of confusion. “Secrets. Can't really have’em here.”

“Oh. Right, right.”

“Now you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Follow me to the lab. Athena had the files already arranged.” The scientist motioned for Jesse to tag along, the duo exiting the room, moving through the compound in comfortable silence. The walk to the lab was easy enough——a left, right, stairs then the doors to the outside and across a catwalk lining the cliff wall. As the lab doors slid open Jesse bit the inside of his cheek to keep down a rather offhanded comment about the tire hanging in the middle of the space. That, along with the impressive pile of empty peanut butter jars in the farthest corner was a neon sign begging for jokes. Winston took a right, entering the section of lab overlooking the drone tracks and began typing away at the keyboard, adjusting the glasses further up on his face. Jesse followed the scientist into lab, a light whistle falling from his lips, coming to stand behind the scientist's left shoulder.

The three screens were awash with information: news, web pages, surveillance video. The middle screen was what Winston indicated. Displayed prominently in large font was the article that had caused Jesse to mull over things left forgotten for the last few days. “The article you sent me seemed faked at first. Through some careful digging Athena and I found that the article is the real however it appears that someone edited it.”

“How so?” Jesse raised a brow, leaning closer to the screen. The article was dated a little over a month ago.

“I back-tracked Deadlock activity and the events detailed in the article took place nearly fifteen years ago—a little after we recruited you.” Winston left the words unspoken. _We saved you._

“I ain't surprised. Some of those boys always were nuttier than squirrel turds,” Jesse chuckled, pushing down a swirling sense of deja vu. There had been members who had wanted to expand, to see that they had won out in the end was disconcerting.

“So while the article is true it was not written on the date indicated. This for me thinking maybe there is a copycat organization and Athena found this,” Winston passed over the strange saying, hiding the initial article to show a video that had been captured through surveillance. On the screen Jesse watched as rough men stacked unlabeled crates into the bed of a truck - an old model like he used to drive - while one stood as lookout at the nose of the vehicle. The building was the old drop point. Jesse felt cold. This was like glancing in a window and seeing one's past self on the other side. The scene played over and over again through his head. Winston's hand on his shoulder shook him loose of the endless loop. “Are you feeling ill? You’ve gotten pale. Do you want me to contact Dr. Ziegler?”

“No. I'm fine. Just… It’s nothing. What else do ya got big man? Surely you didn't bring me up here to just say some fool manipulated a photo to mess with me? I ain't that famous.” There it was. The forced smirk, hiding behind a shroud of good nature and a casual carefree stance. Winston's grunt seemed unconvinced but the scientist continued.

“This video was used to track down these men and local authorities captured a handful of them on the road towards Santa Fe. The crates had been holding dismantled but usable weapon parts fire pulse cannons and rifles.” Here Winston closed the video and pulled up another news article detailing that the bust was just one more of many perpetrated by an unnamed group running rampant through the southwestern United States. “Officially they do not have a name but given the nature of the article you received, I believe it could be inferred that they want Overwatch to know and are planning something much larger than just weapons smuggling. Perhaps the activities indicated in your article. In that case, I believed that Overwatch mobilizing against them was the best course of action.”

“Seems to be what they want. Sure it ain't a trap?” Jesse questioned, resisting the desire to rub where flesh met steel - his prosthetic was starting to give him trouble. He shouldn't have taken the thing into the shower. Now the connections were acting up.

“We can't be but Athena is already in the process of analyzing potential strike points. Morrison has… volunteered to leave ahead of the group to scout out the area. He will report back any findings.” Winston's pause did not go unmarked.

“Take it the others don't know about this?” Now he scratched at the joint, glanced down and stopped the action.

“No. Morrison insisted he do this alone. It is not my place to tell him what to do.” The reluctance and weight in the scientist's tone was enough to tell Jesse that more than likely Morrison had strong armed armed this arrangement.

“So you're saying he was gonna do it anyway so might as well let the old coot do as he pleased,” it was a statement.

“Yes.”

“I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Agreed.” The sigh though soft escaped Winston's throat. Even with Morrison back the man had outright refused to take up his former mantle as leader - stating that as Winston had issued the recall the scientist was the one responsible for Overwatch. The weight of that pressure had started showing itself in the last few months as it became more difficult to maintain secrecy about their activities. Already rumors circulated in hushed whispers around the globe. “There is another issue.” The glasses came off, the scientist rubbing the lenses between the pads of his paws. Jesse felt himself shift from one leg to the other.

“Don’t hold me in suspense now,” the cowboy teased.

“I do not think you should accompany us on this mission. That article was sent to you and only you Jesse. This group wants something from you or, at least, is aware of your former involvement in Deadlock.” The glasses had been replaced, all seriousness in Winston’s tone and stance.

“No need pardner,” he started, biting down annoyance, pushing forward with cock sure words. “I know those lands. If anyone should go it’d be me. I get you're worried but I ain't gonna let the team go in when they're best asset is stuck at home twiddling his thumbs.”

“You specifically requested to not accompany the recon team during their last mission to the states.” Winston pointed out matter of factly.

“Well yeah. They were headed to yankee central. I didn't want no part of that - besides I needed a vacation from the kids,” Jesse elbowed the scientist with a mischievous grin. That hadn't been the reason. They both knew it. “‘Sides I'm kind of regretting that decision now seeing as how everyone is clammed up tight about how the mission went.” Part of him wanted to know but, by the same token, he could hazard a guess.

“About that…”

“No need. From the way Shimada and the old man were staring each other down like two preening cocks I would guess they had a tactical dispute again.” The argument ran deeper than that. Since the archer had begun taking up missions his style of hands off and observe had fallen into direct conflict with Morrison's forward approach. Not necessarily shoot first ask questions later but Morrison was trusting of the intel Athena provided - accepting the AI’s information. Both preferred their tactic - former leaders groomed to be listened to butting heads like rams in musk. “Given them a few days shooting dummies and they'll be right as rain.”

“You are probably correct,” Winston sighed, turning to tap at the keyboard once more, filing away the majority of the windows on screen. “I've assigned you to the detail for the mission.” The scientist sounded exasperated.

“Appreciate it.” One hand casually flicked back the front of his hat. “Thought you’d argue against my going.”

“You're a stubborn man. Like a bull.” Jesse chuckled at the description. “But if you're presence endangers the rest of the team, you're to return immediately.”

“I think I can handle that pardner,” the cowboy acquiesced.

“Acceptable.” Winston still appeared disgruntled at giving even that inch. He couldn't really blame him as being the de facto leader of Overwatch came with a whole slew of problems - the least of which includes several headstrong personalities converging in one place with their own ideas and motivations.

“Did ya manage to find where the article was send from at least?” Jesse questioned, steering the conversation to why the cowboy had been requested in the first place. Again he found himself scratching at the meeting of flesh and metal. Again internal curses at having not properly covered the piece before showering.

“Athena managed to track the location to a data hub south of Santa Fe but the trail goes cold after that. We’re assuming the correspondence was sent through several proxies but without an active link-”

“You're up shit creek. Got it.” The scientist pursed his jaw at being interrupted but Jesse ignored it, running a hand across his face.

“Athena has already run through, rebooted and patched any holes in security but other than that I am afraid I am unable to give you more information about who sent it.” Though unspoken both gunslinger and genius knew that the idea of some anonymous no name hacker sliding through Athena's great wall of defenses was chilling. What else could the intruder have done other than send one agent an edited news clipping?

“Well if you're done with me, I'm going to mosey and try to catch breakfast before the kids eat everything worth eating. Want me to have Lena bring ya something?” His head was buzzing with too much information, trying to compartmentalize everything and failing. His head still ached from the hangover but at least the cotton mouth was a distant memory. “Can Athena tell me where Shimada is currently sulking? Need to thank the man for the tea.”

Winston raised a brow behind the rim of his glasses but requested the information from the AI.

“Agent 04.26H54 - Shimada Hanzo is currently using Practice Range 1. Shall I inform the agent that the practice targets are not pincushions?” it was amazing that even the AI sounded put out at her systems being misused.

“No, Athena-” Jesse snorted, cutting back a laugh and Winston heaved a weary sigh “- but thank you.” The scientist turned, giving the cowboy a pleading expression behind exasperated eyes.

“Alright. Alright. I'll deliver the message. Might want to alert the good Dr. Ziegler she may need her big tweezers today if I'm gonna wrangle a porcupine,” Jesse smiled at his own quip, hands shoved back into his pockets and left the observation deck behind. Winston gave a small grin in response, going back to tinkering on his computers. “Winston.” When the big galoot turned, questioning glance, Jesse continued. “You're doing well. Overwatch is lucky to have ya leading.” If gorillas could blush the gunslinger was certain Winston's face would've been red as strawberries in July. Waving a hand over his head in departure, the cowboy left the scientist to his own devices.

He noted that the headache had disappeared. His hand dug out the communicator, dismissing the flash of the message notification - he was not keen on reading a berating message from an angry old man - to check the time. 1125. Not terribly late but still he had missed breakfast. Pity because the smells of coffee and the promise of bacon and eggs had lingered on the back of his palate through the briefing. Walking across the catwalk, beams of afternoon perforated the rock formations. The warmth was pleasant. He hummed soft tones of a bygone song - listening to the lyrics bouncing about in his head. Without the spurs his steps weren't muted but they were still heavy, hollow echoes off the hallways. He focused on the song, the lyrics rolling over each other and across his tongue. He started softly singing past the kitchen. No one was in, so he continued the self indulgence, sliding away and to practice range one. He would eat after handling the bristling archer - even if stomach protested. An offer of lunch might prove useful to get past that outer shell Shimada kept up.

Hand over the keypad, the door slide open with groans of protest. Another visage leftover from neglect. This wasn't the usually range. The area was littered with wooden crates - haphazardly labeled - with clear paths across the floor indicated a recent rearranging of sorts. Only one lane had been cleared. Edging around a five stacked toward of cargo, he spotted the porcupine first. Back ridged, shoulder muscles stiff with tension, the target dummy never stood a chance. Jesse shifted from staring to casting his gaze down range. He winced, another arrow lodging itself into the decoy, there was no saving it now - Athena had been right the dummy was a pin cushion.

“Breath through your nose,” the words jolted him back, hands gripping into his belt to hide the slight surprise.

“Beg pardon?” One eyebrow raised, not sure if he had heard right.

“Breath through your nose.” Repeated the words were accompanied with a pointed state over a bare shoulder.

“You're in a sour one huh?” The answer was another arrow thudding into the dummy. Jesse pushed forward, walking and talking to stop beside an impromptu table. Sake container and quiver the only occupants. “Here I came to extend my gratitude for the drink and you're bristled like a wild boar.”

“You’re loud,” sharp, the annoyance ticking across equally sharp features.

“Ouch. I'm wounded,” mock pain, hand to his chest, Jesse none the less flashed a toothy smirk. The response was a release of air between clenched jaws in annoyance and disbelief. Jesse subconsciously concentrated on his breathing  “Anyway, I wanted to thank ya for the tea.”

“I felt it imperative to the briefing that your mouth was preoccupied.” Shimada had returned to glaring down the lane, another arrow finding a home in the decoy. With how many projectiles currently resided in the target, Jesse wondered how the archer was finding space to shoot more.

“Was surprised ya knew what I took with my drinks,” some comment about keeping his mouth preoccupied almost rising to the surface. He was here to calm down the archer, make friendly conversation. Thinly veiled crass jokes wouldn't do. Something along the lines of - _this better be full of cream or I’ll be really disappointed._

“I've tasted your sweet tea before. How you have not died from the sugar clogging your heart I can not fathom.” Another arrow. Solid hit.

“I'm here tryin’ offer my thanks and you’re, for lack of a better term, shooting my gratitude down,” his hands came up, shifting from one leg to the other, arms crossed.

“I did not request thanks.”

“Well it's the hospitable thing to do so I'm gonna thank ya.”

“Are you done? You've said your peace.”

“Something buzzed up your bonnett.” The words came out a bit more brash than intended. The deadpan stare was indicative of such.

“Yes. A drunk idiot prancing around at three in the morning,” the archer growled - whether from the implications or because his arrow missed, nicking the base of the dummy and wedging into the springs, Jesse wasn't going to hazard a guess.

“I woke ya? Well shit. I'm sorry about that. The little gremlin challenged me, ya see, and being the man I am I just couldn't turn down-” Cold steel. The arrowhead pressed against his lips cutting off any further rambling. The silencing glare backed up the rather pointed instruction. “You want me to be quiet. Got it.” He managed to form the words around the sharp end digging into his lips.

“Your singing could wake the dead.” Gruff irritation in the words and the archer took away the weapon, returning to abusing the dummy. Jesse reached up, touched the spot where the arrowhead had been still tasting metal - blinking and bringing himself out of the trance.

“What was I singing?” Shimada appeared to ignore the inquiry and silence fell between the two. Jesse knew his original plan had been to simply thank the other man for the tea, offer a branch of cooking lunch, and maybe indulge in a conversation. Only one of those tasks had been completed. The other two were farfetched ideas now. When it became apparent Shimada wasn't going to divulge the request information, the cowboy shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned to leave.

“Something about whiskey. It was… Sad.” The gunslinger almost didn't catch the words but stopped, looking over his shoulder.

“We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time,” Jesse half sang the lyrics. It was hard not too. He listened to those words almost every night. The melody helped him sleep - chased away the demons.

“Something like that but boisterous.” Shimada dropped the bow, hanging at his side and rolling his shoulders, unfired arrow tapping methodically against the metallic of his knee. He brought up the projectile as a pointer. “It had the tone of someone dying - your singing.”

“I ain't that bad,” the stare in return was answer enough. Jesse shrugged, undaunted. “‘Sides it is a good song. Real beautiful. Might make ya listen to the whole of it someday.”

“I'll pass.” The archer had moved to grab his quiver in one hand, sliding his top back over both shoulders, strapping on the holster and stowing the bow in a handful of methodical movements. His gloves hand shoved the unfired arrow back into the quiver.

“Suit yourself.” Jesse watched, getting the hint that the archer was done with his irate firing practice. “You gonna clean up that mess?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the unfortunate target dummy. To solve the mystery, Shimada approached the dummy, one by one removing each arrow and shoving them into the quiver. Done in moments, the archer twisted on the heel and pushed past the gunslinger. “So… I'm gonna be fixin lunch here soon. You're welcome to join.” Jesse rocked back on his heels watching the archer's movements.

“Practice tonight per usual.” Shimada stated, his way of declining the overture - again.

“Morrison won't be there.” Jesse responded noting the curious tilt to be archer's head at the unspoken question. “Personal matter. Don't worry your pretty head.” Jesse tried to brush past the topic of the soldier leaving early to scout ahead. Winston hadn't directly said don't tell anyone but the gunslinger bit his tongue anyway. If Morrison has wanted the information to be public then the grump would've just told the crew in the briefing room. “I'll be there.”

“You need the practice,” left unspoken was the taunt and reminder of the gunslinger’s missed shots during the previous day’s game. Jesse found himself flustered, stepping over a retort, thrown off by the barest of smirks that played across the archer’s face as he exited the range, the door hissing closed to silence. Coming back to his senses, the cowboy physically shook his head and stared at the sealed door - still processing what had just happened.

  
The archer had teased him, yes, but that was not new. The smirk. That had been. Or was Jesse imaging that happening. Settled on laughing off the unnerving sense, the gunslinger exited the range, bee-lining for the kitchen. His hands needed to do something, anything to get his mind off the smirk. Thankful that no one else was in the kitchen - odd considering the time of the day - the cowboy counted his blessing and threw together a sandwich. No chips. Hana or Lucio had probably stolen the last of the crunchy snack. Water would do for a drink. Taking the food to his room, Jesse sequestered himself in there for the better part of a few hours, music turned on high blast and singing to himself to ignore the knot in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships will happen. Eventually. Just not right away. Will add more tags as things happen but, as it stands right now, I don't want to give away too much with the tags.
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!


	3. Save That for the Black & White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Some Nights" by FUN.

_Inside the abandoned tavern the storm was a meager whimper. The bandanna was suffocating in the cloying air. Tugging the fabric away from his chin, Jesse sucked in a sharp breath. He bit back a cough as the smell of abandonment and decay clawed at his nose. Broken chairs and splintered tables decorated the bar. An old jukebox stood, broken front window pane a silent sentry to the years of neglect. A pair of pool tables who's felt covers had been scavenged by the natives. The crates were behind the elongated “L” shaped bar. Three reinforced military grade weapons containers._

_“Will you look at that,” a low whistle accompanied the sarcastic remark, Jacobs pushing Jesse by the shoulder. Crouching down, ignoring Jesse’s annoyed grunt, Jacobs ran a hand over the smooth surface of the container and touching on the glowing control panel. Tapping on the panel, Jacobs was greeted with an irate beep before the panel was outlined in crimson. “Guess there is no peeking huh?” Jacobs chuckled._

_“Can't blow anything up this time,” Jesse remarked, still bristling from his man handling._

_Jacobs stood back up without a word, turned and cuff Jesse across the back of the head. The ridiculous hat was sent flopping into the floor. Jesse glared at the man and received only a cocky, smarmy grin on return._

_“What's the hold up?” Bridges voice came over the radio. The device had been strapped to Jesse’s belt and now crackled to life. The words were obscured with mild interference from the storm outside but the irritation dug under Jesse's skin. The interruption gave Jesse the chance to retrieve his hat, fixing the article back in place and give Jacobs an even glare._

_“Nothing boss. We're moving them now,” the youth barked back, cutting off the radio without waiting for a reply. He pushed at Jacobs’ shoulder, motioning with his hands to get the older man to do his job. With his other hand Jesse pulled the bandana back up around his mouth and over his nose._

_“Gotta learn to keep that mouth of yours shut boy. Shits heavy. Wonder what new kind of crazy weapons they got us hauling now,” Jacobs grunted, grabbing the other end of the container, hefting with one hand._ Fuck off, _Jesse snarled, teeth grinding together, keeping the words in the confines of his head._

_That's how things operated. Deadlock didn't recruit. They tricked. Young kids from poor homes or headstrong idiots with idealized visions of the world, sweet talked them, promised them a family away from their troubles. Once the kid was in the fold, they met the head honcho and were given the gang’s initiation. A simple affair of beer, guns and women. They treated each kid like a new son, for the first week showing the recruits the ropes. That's how they’d nabbed Jesse. Promises of a better life running and gunning, unrestrained by the law, limited only by the codes of the gang - a cowboy paradise. Then they'd found he had a knack for the covert and the subtle and a head for planning. One shipment drop gone south, he had single handedly maneuvered the cargo via a secondary underground tunnel that he had located while studying maps of the area before the pickup. Bridges had taken notice, promoting Jesse ahead of more senior members._

_Now his paradise was a prison. He couldn't leave because Deadlock owned him. His birth family had left Santa Fe, left their son behind, given him up for the new family. Deadlock was what he knew and he had seen what happened to those that left. Images of dead bodies floating down lazy rivers or picked over corpses strung out on the salt flats. Deadlock wasn't nice because they cared. Deadlock was nice because being mean was never as frightening. The Deadlock family survived on brutality, money, and pain; the gang's primary languages. To abandon the family was treason.Bridges’ gaudy buckle was the last thing dead men saw before coyotes plucked their eyes out. Deadlock was a ball and chain Jesse had volunteered for._

_“Feeling your age old man?” Jesse snapped back across the container. He adjusted his grasp, watching with satisfaction as the moved caused Jacobs to groan under the majority of the container’s weight._

_“Kid. I'd wipe that grin off your face if you know what's good for ya,” Jacobs growled despite the groan of pain. Jesse only smirked wider under the bandana, knowing that his face would give away the expression. He kept his mouth shut. The duo moved one then two containers out to the truck. After each crate was dropped into the bed the vehicle complained, the wheels pressing deeper into the sandy abandoned road. Bridges watched them loading up the truck, brutish hands holding the pulse rifle tight. The man’s scraggly visage scanned their surroundings._

_“Harper, how's the front looking?” Bridges barked into the radio. Static was the response. Jesse felt the tension escalate. Bridges shoved the radio back into its holster, hoisted the rifle and darted around the building._

_“Pick your ass up kid, we gotta load this last crate.” Jacobs meaty hand connected with Jesse's back, jerking the kid out of his stupor. Jacobs voice was strained, strung out, the man's hands opening and closing, itching for the feel of a weapon between his palms._

_No smart ass remark was made, Jesse's hand touching the hilt of the pistol he’d been given. The weapon was tucked into the belt of his jeans, comforting in its weight. His obnoxious boots pounded against the dilapidated wood floor, scurrying to grab the handle to the last crate. Jacobs wasn't far behind. The man first slung the pulse rifle over his shoulder before hefting the container, all but dragging Jesse with him. The duo loaded the crate into the bed of the truck. Jacobs shoved Jesse in the direction of the wrangler, snapping orders to get the wreck running._

_With a slight shake to his hands, Jesse did as he was told, turning over the engine of the ancient vehicle and yanking the pistol free, laying the weapon on the passenger seat. It was a simple pulse shooter but he could shoot the wings off a gnat. Even if the projectiles didn't kill they would do some damage if Jesse timed his shots. The radio was still quiet. The storm was wearing itself out. His chocolate brown eyes scanned the immediate area, hands gripping the steering wheel, one foot hovering over the accelerator. No one had said it but all of Deadlock feared a single entity - Overwatch. Jesse had been there when the organization had raided a Deadlock cargo drop. He and Bridges had been the only ones to make it out._

_Jesse replayed the night. Overwatch had raided them, found their drop point, bust through the door and demanded Deadlock throw down their weapons. Gang members died were they stood, the shotguns taking each victim through the chest. Jesse had been in the back, loading cargo with Bridges and some new guy when the strike hit. The rest was blurred together - hustling bodies, rough handling, gunning the engine of a hotwired hover truck to escape with what they could. The clearest memory rattling around in Jesse’s head as a death keel. The words in bitter spanish repeated again and again: “Gara el niño!"_

The shift in air was the initial indication something had changed. A hand brushing against his shoulder. Brushing? No. Shaking. Jesse snapped up, hand grabbing the hilt of his revolver from its bedside holster and rounding on where he perceived the intruder. The faintest strands of his memory still lingered mixing real and imagined. The paradox clouded his vision until he could blink them away, eyes clearing to reveal… a bunny?

“Really Brokeback? I come to get you for dinner and this-” Hana raised her right hand indicating the gun “-is how you say hello?” She pushed at the revolver’s barrel, nudging Peacekeeper to the side.

“Little miss,” he swallowed, stowing the weapon, shaken, he noticed the hammer was cocked. When had he done that? “You shouldn't be wandering into people's rooms like this.”

“I know but I was passing by and it was late and you missed dinner so I came to check in,” she had her arms crossed, one fisted holding something but he couldn't tell what. “You left your sappy music on.”

“I could've shot you Hana!” Jesse snapped, his gun hand was shaking. His vision was in and out of focus.

“Nope.” Self assured, the quip pitched towards the end as she deposited a handful of bullets onto the bed between Jesse’s legs. “I’ve woken you before. I took precautions. You sounded like you were in pain…” Her feet scuffed together across the hard floor.

“Come here,” he sighed, motioning with his hand. When she leaned in, his flesh hand connected with the back of her head and elicited a surprised yelp. “Don’t do that again.” She raised her lip in an annoyed scoff before Jesse grabbed the feisty girl, folding her into a bone crushing hug. “Thanks you little gremlin.”

“Can’t breath. Too much smoke,” Hana choked out, struggling against the grip the cowboy had around her shoulders before reaching down, poking Jesse in the gut. He loosened his grip, jerking away with a chuckle. Hana straightened out her kigurumi, pretending to brush away dust and waving a hand in front of her face as if to ward off invisible smoke. “Don’t get sappy on me Brokeback.”

“Now that ain’t a nice thing to say to your elders little miss,” he chided but there was no venom in the words. Jesse shoved the blanket off of his legs. The woolen fabric had become entangled around his calves. He was still wearing his boots. Thank goodness the spurs were not attached. Explaining to Athena why he needed a new mattress added to the next supply run due to carelessness would be terribly embarrassing. “What time is it?” He felt the memory drifting away, ebbing back like the tide on the cliffs outside.

“Eleven.” She stepped to the side, allowing him room to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

“Eleven? I think I've missed more than dinner,” the mild surprise apparent he scratched at the underside of his jaw, brushing crumbs out of his beard. The plate that had held his lunch lay abandoned next to his pillow, a bite of crust and a few choice crumbs leftover. “Could've woken me up sooner don't you think?”

“Could have but I didn't.” She was picking at the sleeve of her ridiculous outfit. The top had been pulled off her head, the equally ridiculous ears on the one piece hidden. “Are you alright? I mean, not that I'm super concerned, but you kept muttering in Spanish.”

“I did?” Jesse reached out and patted her head like a pup. With a click of his tongue the cowboy grabbed the forgotten plate, adjusted his rumpled shirt and straightened his belt - sleeping with the buckle was a pain.

“Yes. What were you saying?” She stepped aside.

“I don't right remember. Probably nothing important,” Jesse scooped up the discarded bullets, flicking open the revolver and slotting each projectile home. Closing the gun, he shoved the weapon back into the bedside holster. “So if ya came to wake me for dinner I'm assuming you saved me some grub?”

“There is a plate in the oven. You're welcome,” she grunted, arms crossed, watching him move about the room and hand the plate to her.

“Aw you care,” he laughed. She stuck out her tongue with a raspberry. Jesse motioned for her to scoot, pushing the gamer out of his room, grabbing his hat and a half burnt cigar off the desk. “So what's for dinner?” One hand shoved into a pocket while the other flicked his lighter. Jesse started down the hallway towards the kitchen, Hana easily keeping up with the cowboy's wider strides.

“Rosti and sausage,” she had pulled out a phone, tapping away at the screen, plate tucked under her other arm.

“You mean Rösti?” He grinned around the cigar at the disgruntled sound that his young companion emitted.

“Yeah that. Potato pancake. I don't know. Dr. Ziegler made them and Lucio ate most of them. You're just lucky I saved you some,” Hana waved a hand in the air and shoved the phone back into some hidden pocket. “You should buy me more soda as a thanks.”

“Greedy little gremlin,” Jesse playfully smacking her shoulder. She rubbed the spot, glaring in mock offense. “I'll see what I can do.”

They entered the kitchen in comfortable quiet. Smells from dinner lingered in the air. That must have been hours ago but the smell was still hanging in the space - a comfortable, welcoming blanket of homey feelings. Hana darted over to the sink, dropped the dirty plate before opening the oven and pulled out a foil covered container. With a satisfied nod she handed the food to the cowboy, yanking the covering off with a flurry. Jesse bemusedly watched the entire escapade, returning the flourish with a slight bow at his waist over the dish.

“Dr. Ziegler said 30 seconds in the microwave should heat it right up.” Hana tossed the now crumpled foil into the trash, pumping both fists in the air before moving towards the exit of the kitchen. “Shimada said to tell you to not worry about practice. Something about if you're still tired from last night then maybe sleep will improve your aim. I don't know. I'm just passing along a message.” Hana's face lit from cheek to cheek and she ambled out of the kitchen, skipping away to cause trouble no doubt.

Jesse was left alone in the kitchen, semi-warm plate in his hands and cursing vehemently in his head. He had forgotten. Hadn't meant to fall asleep - snoozed right through the prearranged practice session. He rarely missed and not showing up was tantamount to admitting that Shimada had been correct. Jesse had missed - more ways than one.

Half an hour found Jesse striding down the abandoned hallways towards a potential tirade. He had left the plate of leftovers in the microwave - actually more like forgotten but his hands were full. One hand balanced two cups while the other held a steaming pot of steeping tea away from his body. He had already splashed when filling the pot earning a nice warning to his arm about the dangers of hot water. There was a new problem. How does one knock when both hands are full? Jesse stared at the door, the tiniest flash of light under the threshold the only indication of the room beyond being inhabited. Shimada did not seem the kind to leave lights on willy nilly. Everything the man did was measured, practiced, meant to use the least amount of wasted effort. With a grunt Jesse shoved the handle of tea pot between his lips teeth gnawing on the nasty tasting wrapping. Free hand rapped on the door. No response.

“Damnit,” the cowboy cursed but with his mouth preoccupied the word was warped. “Shimada. You awake?” Still no answer but there was a soft rustling. Jesse considered maybe he had woken up the other man. He should have thought this through. It was nearly midnight but the archer was infamous for his weird hours. Spitting out the handle, the cowboy bite his bottom lip to stifle another noise of annoyance. He set the pot and cups down on the floor and knocked once more.

“Sorry for missin practice. I got a lot on my mind. I know that ain't an apology or excuse but I made some tea. Its outside. I'll come by in the mornin and clean it up. Have a good night.” He turned on his heel then, slight stoop to his walk and returned to the kitchen. There was no indication that the door slide open as Jesse left. Maybe the gesture would go unappreciated. The cowboy was never sure with Shimada. The man was wound tight. What Jesse knew of the man's past, what the dossier said, was one thing. He could guess at the rest. The list was immense, impressive and daunting: betrayal, weapons smuggling, assassin, fratricide.

Nearly a year and still he couldn't read the man. Jesse always thought he had a knack for getting people to lighten up. When Shimada had come to the Watchpoint that belief has been shattered. Home cooked meals, friendly banter, range practice, nothing cracked that shell. A year of trying had earned a smirk. A condescending gesture at best. Still that small uplift of the lips was something. Baby steps Jesse reminded himself. He went about the motions of clean the mess he had made in the search for tea. The box of packaged chamomile was shoved back into Lena’s personal stash. Originally Jesse had attempted to make heads and tails of the Japanese labeling in the cabinet Genji used - labeled in bold letters “Keep Out!” across a piece of duct tape slapped to the front door - Jesse had given up in favor of something familiar. It hadn't been green tea or some fancy imported brand but chamomile was good for soothing and relaxing. With the odd hours Shimada notoriously kept maybe the drink could help ease that which kept him up at night. Or Jesse would just find a cold pot and unused cups in the morning. He hoped for the former.

Reheated plate in his lap, the cowboy settled down in his own space. Boots kicked off to the side. The serape now rested furled into a ball at the base of his spine. A makeshift pillow. He hadn't brought utensils. Angela's cooking tended towards finger foods. Easy to make and easy to eat. The console stirred to life, a few beeps indicating activation and the familiar symbol flashing across the screen. No new messages. That he had hoped for a biting comment from the archer in the inbox was laughable. Jesse released a chuckle, deep and from within, rumbling his chest. Any emotion from that stone fox was a miracle. That smirk rolled around in his head until Jesse finally passed out. The sun was just peeking the horizon and the words of a long forgotten song drifted from the communicator: _the rumors flew but nobody knew..._

When he woke again (no one disturbed him this time - small miracles), went through the motions of a shower and cleaning, tossing clothes into a pile in the corner, the gunslinger saw it was near noon. He smirked. The irony. Clothes pressed in a bundle against his chest, wearing gaudy patterned shorts in a brilliant blue and a plain white tank, he passed by Lena, Hana and Lucio on the way to cause trouble. He nodded, offering a bright smile and received varying responses from the bubbly trio. Hana offering an offhanded comment about his dad apparel. The trio laughed and dashed away leaving Jesse questioning their sanity. The laundry room had one machine going so he grabbed the other, shoving everything in in one big glob of fabric, emptied a generous amount of detergent and started the machine.

Next stop was the kitchen where dishes piled in a haphazard mess told the story of the younger members’ lunch shenanigans. With no one to feed the cowboy shoved a bag of popcorn into the microwave, started the machine and rolled up his sleeves. At least the kids had washed off their dishes this time. Digging into the bottom of the sudsy mess, Jesse pulled the teapot and cups up. He stopped, an expression of elation and disappointment battling across his brow. The pot meant two things. Shimada had taken the peace offering or had emptied out the contents to save Jesse's feelings. He wasn't a tender foot. Still the cowboy opted for the former because it did less to tarnish the image of a grateful comrade accepting a kind gesture. Pot and cups found their way into the washer. At the press of a button the appliance whirled to lift. Jesse grabbed his popcorn and left, returning to his room, turning on the console and settling in to watch the news. Locals stations from his hometown. He was searching - unconsciously - but he wasn't sure for what.

The night he arrived at the practice range still dressed in outlandish shorts. He had gotten caught up in newsreels, finding more truth to Deadlock’s reappearance, and had missed the buzzer for his laundry. The cloths were running another cycle. His communicator set to alert when they were done. Shimada offered an appreciation for the tea, stating that at least the cowboy attitude wasn't all show, yet still managed to be damning, more ordering than offering the suggestion of some Japanese tea instead of what Jesse had pilfered from Lena’s cabinet. The gunslinger’s attire was next on the chopping block. The shorts warranted an eye roll. The tank top a derisive snort. His only retaliation was that he wore the plain white tank and not the gaudy rhinestone one. Jesse had to explain that that tank had been a practical joke. Hana would whine now and again that Jesse refused to wear the god awful thing. (He secretly loved the gaudy piece.) The rest of his time with the archer was compatible. Minor conversation. A few trick shots. Nothing flashy save his cerulean shorts. He had even worn his boots (spurs included) adding to the ridiculousness of it all. Going to make a fool of yourself then go all out.

They parted ways near to midnight. Jesse wasn't tired. His sleep schedule was complete and utterly out of whack. The only two souls he knew would be awake didn't disappoint. He remembered the guitar - pulled from the back of his closet - lacquered black with the white design of paisley creeping across the surface. Most of the pattern was scratched, worn from use and abuse. Jesse took a moment to tune the instrument before slinging it across his back, marching down to the troublesome duo’s shared wreck room. He gave up the guitar, patted Hana on the head with a tease to not break it, declined an offer to join in another round of multiplayer mutilation and left with a wave.

The rest of the week was much the same. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Routine settled in and Jesse found himself whistling the beginning chords to his lullaby often. Morrison came and went reporting to Winston the fruits of his scouting. Jesse was requested and given the full debriefing. Old times. Old habits die hard. Afterwards the surly soldier sequestered himself to range three, amongst moth eaten crates and tinkered away toiling to get the nostalgic rifle to fire. Three days before the end of the week the rest of the team was given the watered down version. Deadlock still wasn't named. Shimada guessed at practice that much and Jesse confirmed. The man would discover the truth eventually. Better to hear it from the source than in the midst of a hailstorm of bullets. Admitting though left a foul taste in the gunslinger's mouth. Shimada didn't judge, only nodded. They had that in common. The pot couldn't call the kettle black here. It's what made Jesse warm to the archer - shady dark characters with checkered pasts wallowing in their shared misery and escape.

Winston had the team assigned to travel to the states begin simulation three days prior to departure. McCree, Shimada, Santos, Song and Oxton. Morrison opted to stay behind, wanting to focus on researching with the returned knight and grump. Reinhardt offered a promise to regale the rest of the team with the tale of the duo’s mission later: once the grumpy old man was satisfied with their report.

The day for departure came. The transport had been loaded the night previous. All that remained was boarding and takeoff. Dr. Ziegler took him aside, ran a quick diagnostic over his prosthetic to ensure the appendage’s shape and gave a word of caution about sand and machines. Since showering too long with the prosthetic on the joints had been cruel - sometimes seizing up or jamming entirely. The result was often a misfiring of the nerve connections and a major headache. Angela saw him every other day until they spent twelve hours breaking down the arm. The problem had been a pinched wire deep in the mechanics and the good doctor had fixed the issue - even rearranged a few connections to streamline the rough shod interior. But she still worried. Instincts as a doctor he presumed. Jesse assured her it would be fine. She was skeptical but still offered a brief embrace to the gunslinger before ushering him off with the rest of the team. The action was out of place and later as the transport sailed over the Atlantic the embrace would nag at the back of his mind.

They had taken off with Lena at the helm - jokingly going over “safety protocol” (trays in the upright position, the captain has not turned off the seatbelt sign McCree!) - and allowed Hana a chance to co-pilot once the ship had entered cruising altitude. It was obvious when the gremlin took the controls. The entire transport dipped abruptly sending anything not bolted down flying. Jesse ended up sprawled across the table. Lucio bounced off the wall like the frogs he so enjoyed and the damned archer didn't even budge - merely held out a hand to brace himself against the wall. A few ruffled strands of salt pepper hair the indication of a disturbance.

“The captain would like to remind passengers that the seat belt sign is not a suggestion,” Hana's voiced mocked through the intercom. Jesse shook his head, righting himself and dusting off his cloths when the transport lurched hard left. Again he was thrown. Again Lucio bounced off the wall hollering. And again Shimada held out a hand and didn't move.

“Gremlin if you don't stop this nonsense right now-” crackling over the intercom cut off any tirade Jesse started.

“Tracer here. I’ve taken back control of the transport loves. Please ignore the previous ‘captain’s’ goading. We still have a few hours of flight time so it would be for the best if everyone got along,” the air quotes around the word captain were obvious in Lena’s voice despite the static. Jesse groaned, straightening his hat and shaking a fist at the transport’s cockpit. Hana stuck out her head, blew a raspberry and ducked back in with an accompanying giggle from both of the cockpit’s occupants.

Jesse dusted himself off, not that there was much too clean, taking a seat by the archer. Hanzo’s attention was focused on the datapad in his hands, finger scrolling across the screen every few minutes. They sat in silence, Lucio having wandered up to the cockpit and the troublesome trio was up to who knew what. Judging by the muted laughter they were having a mighty fine time of it.

“So has she pulled that shit before?” Jesse broke the silence.

“Yes.” One word replies. Clear sign to not interrupt.

“That explains it then,” the gunslinger craned his neck, catching a glance at the screen of the datapad. “Probably helps ya had a younger sibling.”

“...Yes.” The archer’s shoulders stiffened. Bad subject. Jesse mentally kicked himself. He forced a disarming smile. The Shimadas’ relationship was old news at the watchpoint. Out of courtesy the members agreed to avoid the subject but the brother pair could be seen often sparring on the beach or perched atop the control towers - banners flapping in the shore breeze.

“Mind if I ask what you're reading?” Time to change the conversation.

Instead of answering the archer tapped on the screen, turned the data pad around, flashing the digital image of a title page. Oranges and yellows with the silhouette of a kid on a horse - a cowboy. Jesse read the bold, stylized words and knew his eyes widened. The archer was reading old school westerns. Jesse almost pinched himself. Instead he bit his bottom lip to hold in a smirk, leaning back against the bench and crossed his hands - fingers steepled - over his chest.

“Didn't figure you for a connoisseur of old dime novels,” his voice held all the joviality of someone who’d caught the cat in the cookie jar.

“I am not. I am merely sating a mild curiosity,” Shimada curtly replied, burrowing his head back into the data pad.

“Odd that you picked that particular novel though. Not many know of it. If you were going to enjoy a western you could’ve gone for _Lonesome Dove_ ,” Jesse rested his head against the wall, the action causing his hat to top up and away from his hair.

“A little bird recommended this one and the book has garnered much praise through reading critics,” Shimada had turned all business. The tone of a man wanting to be left to his devices but patiently entertaining a pestering child.

“I'll leave ya be then. I was just curious cause never figured you for a western reader. When you're done we should talk. It’d be interestin’ to pick your brain,” Jesse hoped it sounded harmless enough. The book question happened to be one very few knew about and only handful knew as one Jesse particularly favored.

“What a coincidence.” Shimada didn't glance up but Jesse swore there was a smile in those words. It left the gunslinger feeling like he’d missed a joke. He expected this from the gremlin or the boombox but the straight faced, stoic archer not so much.

By the end of the flight, they all agreed on being tired and deserving of a relaxing night - after they ensured Hana’s meka was still in one piece and Lena had activated the cloaking device on the transport. It was near midnight in Santa Fe. In late spring. The air was dry and a desert chill crawled down Jesse’s back. The case containing his chest plate was swung over his  shoulder as he tagged behind the rest of the group. The rag tag bunch meandered through the rural streets before Lena stopped in front of a deserted workshop. The sign above the building was painted in faded red blocks but dirt and age made them illegible. The building itself was nondescript, adobe construction with an office proper attached to the side. The windows were boarded up and cracked in places. A few choice pieces of graffiti cluttered the planks. The plucky brit opened a padlock on the front door and the garage opened with an echoing grinding clang. Jesse winced. Wake up the whole neighbourhood. The archer’s brow twitched - the only other sign any in the group were bothered by the noise.

“Home sweet home lovelies! Get comfortable!” Lena darted into the garage, dropping off her duffel bag and into the office space. The bell on the door rang. Jesse made a note to pull that bell off before any of them went to bed. Hana and Lucio quickly claimed the cots on the left wall and Lena called from the office that she would be taking the couch in there. That left the two cots on the right wall. Shimada dumped his belongings on the green one. Jesse shrugged, his luggage causing the leftover moth eaten cot to creak in protest. His lip turned up around the cigar between his teeth. He could already feel the back ache from sleeping on the thing.

They settled in. Hana and Lucio fought over the single working shower with the former winning out. Lena put in a call to inform home base of their arrival. Shimada returned his attention to the data pad, flipping through the virtual novel once more. Jesse settled into the cot, digging through the duffel and brought out a set of miniature tools. Detaching the prosthetic, the gunslinger checked over what wiring he could and blew out what sand had started to worm its way into the device. He left the prosthetic off, scratching at the scarred remainder. When Lena announced that they’d start recon bright and early the next day a collective grown seemed to come from everyone but the archer who nodded an acknowledgement. After that they all settled into their respective beds - Jesse closing the garage door and locking it tight - a serene silence punctuated by rustling and even breathing permeated the air. He didn't ask but flipped through the music on his communicator, tucking it under his pillow and drifted off to the sounds of an old country singer and the soft light from Shimada's reading.

He slept through the night without any memories. A blessing. Hana's concern about his Spanish mutterings still nagging at the back of his mind. Jesse did not want to explain the nightmares. Lena brought in bags of fast food - simple stuff that could fill and meet the general calorie count - but left a cardboard aftertaste. The first day saw Hana and Lucio, dressed in their own merchandise, released upon Santa Fe. Lena and Shimada followed suit. Jesse chided himself at feeling somewhat morose to not see half of the archer exposed to the world. The sight felt wrong. They all wore simple gear - shirts, jeans or leggings, flip flops or shoes and in Shimada's case a pair of cheap sunglasses.

Jesse was regulated to com duty meaning stay behind, watch the monitor and relay any information the other four found back to Winston. Real intense stuff. His boots were propped up on the table - spurs removed, laying on the cot and rumpled blanket - and a cigar twirled idly between his fingers. His other hand tapping at the scroll button for the console, barely paying attention to a pre-recorded video of Hana's last stream before they’d come to the states. Jesse had pulled Peacekeeper out after an hour of nothing to report. He stood in the small office space, mind wandering once again to the novel Shimada had been reading and the words ‘a little bird told me’ ringing again and again through his head. The revolver spun and twisted in his hand - a mechanical reflex. Like clicking a pen it was a fixation to keep his nerves in line.

The buzz of the communicator had him jumping, knee slammed against the metal desk and a string of curses followed. Not looking, Jesse palmed the device, opening its front screen and stopped cold. The message wasn't from any of his team mates. In fact it wasn't from Overwatch at all. There was no sent from address, no name, and it contained one sentence.

 **Recipient:** 10.29M.76  
**Status:** Urgent  
**Subject:** _-_

**Message:**

Welcome home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships will happen. Eventually. Just not right away. Will add more tags as things happen but, as it stands right now, I don't want to give away too much with the tags.
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!


	4. But Life Got In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Hold Back the River" by James Bay.
> 
> Please take note that there are some additional tags for this chapter. They include graphic violence, threats of a bomb, and implied character death. Please heed these warnings if this kind of material will bother you.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The room was burning - desert heat. Unbearable. His hands itched for something, anything to use in defense but Peacekeeper was laying across the room. Unreachable. Who came to a fight unprepared. His opponent - all smug grins, devilish intentions and steady eye contact. He gulped. The temperature was stifling drawing out his breath in ragged gasps. His weight shifted one foot to the other trying to find balance. His adversary didn't move, casually raising a brow, silent taunts to his discomfort. She had him cornered. She knew it.

Dead to rights. 

A true Mexican stand off.

Metallic arm up, tugging on his collar. Too tight. How had it come to this? He had been careful, counting, bidding his time for the perfect shot. He calculated, retracing his steps, scrambling for the moment he had misstepped. 

“Well pardner, what's it gonna be?” The chewed end of the straw twitching with each mocking syllable.

“First,” he raised a finger, accentuating the word. “I do not sound like that.” Four sets of eyes. Four transmissions of the same message:  _ Yes. Yes you do. _ He ignored it, brain foggy and feeling light. “Second,” another finger. His head tilted down, blinking, clearing his vision. “You have a terrible accent. You're not rolling the drawl out.”

“Stop stalling darlin’,” there it was again - the bastardization of his trademark twang ruined by a heavy handed eastern influence. “I know when I got ya in my sights.” She winked, finger gun pointed between his eyes. Lucio stifled his laughter, biting his bottom lip before whistling out the epitome of western tunes. Lena's chuckles couldn't be contained.

“You're both insufferable.” The archer groused, leaned back into his chair. For once his chest was covered and the colored digits of his tattooed arm tapped impatiently at the lip of his glass. Half empty. He had nursed the same sake for the past hour.

Jesse cut a glare at the archer. “I'll call your bluff kid!” Two eights and three fives slammed onto to the linoleum surface. He leaned forward, prosthetic gripping his knee. Smugness smeared across the gunslinger's face. Why had he ever been concerned?

“Dead man walking!” Hana threw down her hand, greedily holding out a palm for her prize.

Four aces.

Jesse's forehead felt the cool touch of the flimsy table top, reluctant grip handing over his beloved hat. The little gremlin donned the accessory with a grin so smug it would put a dragon to shame. Lena and Lucio wrapped Hana up in an embrace. The trio's voices rose in a sing-song rendition of how soundly their youngest member had beaten the self proclaimed poker master. Jesse groaned. His first misstep: under estimating the gremlin - again.

_ Earlier… _

“Anything interesting happen love?” Lena's voice jolted him. Jesse scrambled to stuff the communicator in his back pocket. Those two words rolling like thunder around in his head - bouncing off the insides, a ratchet he could not escape. “Didn't mean to startle ya. Something on your mind?”

“Not much rocking around in there in the first place,” Jesse grinned, rapping his head with his knuckles. His chuckle was forced, strained and Lena was not convinced. The titled brow, twitch of lips and hip that connected with the door frame informed him of such. “I'm fine. Just tired. Didn't sleep well.” The last two were partial truths. The cot was terrible, no back support and his lower joints popped just getting out of bed that morning.

“What's wrong Jes?” Lena - ever chipper - could be serious and it was easily the most frightening aspect of the plucky woman. Jes was a concerned but stern name. He loathed it. The one word could mean an abbreviation to a feminine moniker. Lena did not mean it as such but the tone of a woman talking down and not budging had Jesse riled up.

“I told ya already,” he played off with a wave, boot kicking against the edge of the desk. His knee twitched, a quiet reminder of the banging he had taken moments before. “Just nerves. I'll be fine.”

“Jesse,” Lena sighed, hands hanging to her sides, pushing off the doorway, grabbing the gunslinger into an embrace. “You have a team beside you again now love. Don't dismiss it.” The cerulean blip retreated, half hearted perk before Jesse could respond or return the gesture. Her voice was all cheer and pep as she rejoined the others. The dour meeting had never happened. Jesse stayed, standing in the office, hands hooked into his belt, glaring a hole into the floor. The team deserved to know the reasons behind their mission here. That personal aspect kept his mouth tightly sealed. Shimada understood. Had not questioned the motive when Jesse had confirmed the archer’s suspicions about the nature of their mission but the others… They thought this was a mere reconnaissance tour. The voices from the garage grew in volume, the conversation becoming animated. 

“They got the train fixed finally!” Lena piped in to continue an unheard dialogue.

“Might not be that way for long though,” the lift to Hana's voice was mocking. Jesse clenched his right fist, suppressed annoyance, surprised at his sudden ire. The train incident - he wasn't responsible but the running joke was a dead horse the gremlin would not let rest.

“What did you find out loves?” Lena snapping to change the subject. Any response drifted out of earshot, the boarded up door to the office banging shut behind him. Belatedly Jesse relaxed his fist, yearning for a cigar but his case was still in his pack. In the garage. 

His back connected with the building, the uneven stucco digging tiny pinpricks into his shoulders. He focused on the small pains. The communicator a physical weight against his soul. Two words playing across his inner eye. Their meaning a multitude of possibilities. Welcome Home. Santa Fe was his birthplace but not that four letter word. He had no connection to this place. Deadlock had recruited him here but they were no family. His head fall back, brim of his hat catching on the wall and pressing up at an odd angle. The dying sunlight peeked over the roof of the building before him. One foot kicked a loose pebble against the adobe facade. Welcome home. This wasn't home. Truthfully he had never felt at home but for those precious years in Overwatch. With those pleasant faces, warm presences and people who would tolerate his tendency towards being a walking trope.

Hands laced behind his head, a makeshift cushion, his eyes drifted close just relishing in the warmth of the fading day across his face. They had come here to explore gang activity. Deadlock was alive and moving again. His past was not dead. He chuckled darkly. He should be used to dead things not staying dead. Overwatch. Morrison. Now the ball and chain that had corrupted a thirteen year old with promises of family had resurfaced. Deadlock turned an upstart into a survivor: a runaway into a sharpshooter. Jesse chewed on his bottom lip, conflicted within as the conversation with Winston over the article replayed again and again in his head. Combined with the message nestled as a stone in his pocket the gunslinger felt pressed under the realization that he could not outrun the deceased. Even metaphorically his former prison was here lurking somewhere in the shadows.

The day was long gone by the time he returned to the garage. Lena had peeked out, requesting his presence. She briefly spouted out that dinner was some cheap fast food burgers Shimada had begrudgingly procured and that Hana had a surprise for the gunslinger.

His shoulder had started to fall asleep against the stucco. Now his back cracked when he stretched, popping the kinks. Inside the safe house a plastic table had been erected. No longer white and covered in a smattering of unnamed brown stains: three lawn chairs circled the table with a cot pulled up as a haphazard bench. His cot.

Hana and Lucio were ducked together, conspiratorial, shuffling two decks of playing cards between them. The mischief hanging in the air was suffocating. Jesse took one guess as to what the next words out of Hana's mouth would be.

“The Poker Master finally shows himself.” She leaned forward, one arm draped across the table. “Ready to lose that pretty hat of yours?”

“You haven't bested me yet.” Jesse kicked out one of the chairs, spinning it to straddle the back. “What's got you so cocksure little miss?” If he had a cigar it would have been rolling between his teeth behind the lopsided mug.

“I-” Lucio nudged her, waving a hand between the two of them “-We found a teacher.”

Jesse reached over, snatching the deck Hana was fiddling with. The cards flowed between his flesh and metal hands. His flourish of card tricks were basic intimidation tactics. “Last I checked watching a video tutorial doesn't count as a teacher.”

“Wasn't a video.” The duo shared a grin - all teeth and predatory.

“Who is the poor fella y'all suckered into being your fool?” Jesse echoed their expression, prosthetic settled on the table, leaning forward just as sly.

“We are not at liberty to reveal our sources,” Hana raised her nose, putting on a haughty air. Lena snickered, observing the conversation from the office doorway. Shimada has disappeared after bringing in the ‘greasy American food’ and hadn't returned. Probably gone to find food not saturated in fat and carbs. Jesse internalized his amusement at the notion of the archer hunting down a salad at the nearest late night grocer. That figure didn't keep itself.

Jesse banished the image, returning attention to the plotting duo.

“Part of the bargain. They teach us-” Again Lucio waved a finger between the two troublemakers “-and in return we get to knock down the King of Poker.”

“Don't seem fair to me,” Jesse reached for his cigar to tap emphatically, remembered he wasn't biting on one and scratched his chin to cover.

“How so? We get to beat you at your own game bro.” The musician crossed his arms, smirking ear to ear.

“Bragging rights. Humiliation. A lifetime of regret. I finally get to wear that hat.” Hana was ticking off the list on one hand, gaze leveled at the gunslinger. A bubble popped from between her lips. “Besides, teacher said they didn't want anything in return. Only to see you beaten.”

“Maybe,” let them believe what they wanted. It was cute. “Like I said, still don’t seem fair. Poor sap, whoever he is, had to put up with you two for more than five minutes. I can't do it without a head start and a good bit of whiskey.” The huffy, petulant pout that creased Hana’s face and facade of wounded pride on Lucio served to encourage Jesse. These two were absolute gluttons for punishment.

“Teacher offered his help.” Hana was defensive now, visibly irked by the mocking lift to the gunslinger’s lips.

“Yeah bro,” Lucio cut in.

“He came to us with the deal. We could not let the opportunity go by.” Hana had placed both hands down on the table, leaning forward across the space between herself and Jesse. Nearly nose to nose. All posturing and indignant pride. “I just wish I could stream your humiliation. Recorded for all time to show to the rest of Overwatch.”

“Pass us up.” At the questioning look, Jesse elaborated. “You want to say let the opportunity pass us up.” His prosthetic hand tapped against the table - a hollow, plastic noise. The stolen card deck sitting innocent by his twitching digits.

“Whatever.” Hana waved, flopping back down into her seat. Lucio was quietly shuffling the other deck. “You ready to get your ass kicked?”

“I'm gonna make you eat those words little miss.”

“Bring it on cowman! Collect your poison.”

“Pick. Pick your poison.” Jesse chuckled at her sneer. “Texas Hold’em. Do y'all need a run down on the rules?” His brow twitched upwards.

“No,” Lucio chortled, cutting off his partner in crime.

“We should make it interesting,” Hana was not easy to contain and the almost sinister spark in her eyes.

“I'm listening,” Jesse settled back into the uncomfortable chair. His hands had picked up the cards, shuffling them between his fingers.

“Since we do not have chips or coins to bet…” She twirled a hand through her hair, all innocent airs despite the very guilty tone.

“Gremlin. If you're hinting at what I gather you're hinting at then no. Ain't gonna happen.”

“You're no fun.” Arms crossed, hunched shoulders she was full petulant child now, eyes diverted to stare at the wall.

“No don't suppose I am but what you're suggesting isn't exactly appropriate.” 

“Why not?” Jesse's knew the look of surprise wasn't unnoticed when Shimada come through the office door, interjecting into the conversation. “We are all adults.”

“Now I know you ain't condoning this. Poker we can play but what the little miss is suggesting…” Jesse let the sentence hang, duelly interrupted when Lena dashed from behind the archer - wearing every piece of clothing she had brought with her. 

“What's wrong love? ‘Fraid you'll lose to us beginners?”

Jesse sputtered. Between the four equally confident, taunting expressions and being forced to the position of the responsible adult the cowboy found himself in a corner. Unfamiliar with the situation was an understatement and his prosthetic curled into a fist, pressing against his forehead. Resigned breathe eased out of his chest. It turned into self deprecating cackles. Shimada’s face openly questioned his sanity. Hana and Lucio exchange concerned glances. Lena shook her head, adjusting the collar of one too many shirts about her throat.

“Sheriff? You feeling alright man?” Lucio’s tapped to fingers on the table.

“I think he’s lost it chaps.” Lena leaned down, her voice a hushed whisper to the musician.

“No. That ain’t it.” Jesse cleared his throat, searching for composure and yearning for a cigar. “Alright. If ya’ll want to play that game we will.” 

Taking turns changing, Hana and Lucio tossed on the clothing they had brought with. Seated around the table with a trio of overstuffed agents and the silent stoic Shimada, Jesse knew that even resigned to his fate this debacle might still be salvageable. Between the three younger crew the burgers didn't stand a chance. Remarkably the archer actually ate one of greasy monstrosities. Granted Shimada picked off the pickles, handing them over to Hana's outstretched burger. The table was cleared, wrappings tossed into the bin or pile and decks shuffled together. Lena had brought out three six packs from the office. Then the archer had produced his flask. Jesse put up another argument against allowing Hana to indulge. Shimada, again, was the one to argue for the little miss. Her upbringing decidedly different from the American's own. The communal consumption of soju during holidays was not limited by the same age restrictions as Jesse's culture. Jesse heaved a blast, gave up the argument with a throw of his hands in the air and the poker game started.

Lena was first to lose a shirt to Jesse. He put the article of clothing - neatly, wryly folded - into the beginning of a pile by his side. Alcohol was flowing between them all but their pilot. She declined with the explanation of having a metabolism that would process the drink too quickly. Clothes disappeared. Jesse’s collection grew. Two six packs were downed and the third say next to booted feet within easy reach. At one point Lucio commented on how glib Hana's tongue had become with the consumption of the sake. Her flirty tone stopped, tension settling for the hand until Lena produced a Royal Flush and promptly won back the headband Jesse had been wearing. Then the final hand. All the marbles and Jesse lost.

Hours and too many beers later he was laying face down on a plastic table while Hana danced around the garage spouting howdy. Lucio and Lena joined in and, much to the gunslinger's chagrin, even the uptight Shimada allowed the briefest of twitches to his mouth. Until he saw Jesse openly smirking at catching any kind of emotion other than sourpuss on his face. The twitch vanished. Hoisting himself out of pitiful self misery, the game had been in good fun and Hana had surprised him a few times, Jesse finished his last beer and rummaged through his pack. Without a word to the three still touting their fellow’s victory over the ‘King of Poker’s’ head, he stepped into the office and out into the alleyway. It was near midnight if not slightly earlier and the silence outside was a stark contrast to the mini party inside.

Flicking open his lighter, biting off the end of the cigar, he lit and inhaled, favouring the taste before releasing. The smoke at the end of a barrel. He stood in the alley, considering the few stars in the light polluted sky, listening to the quiet scuffle of the drinking crowd as they passed the abandoned store front. Heading to the revitalized main street and it's party scene. They hadn't had that when he had lived here and now, too old to really mingle with the hip crowd. Jesse shook his head at the absurd image. The boarded door jangled. The muted footsteps gave away the archer before Jesse turned his head, eyes scanning from the sky to the sharp features of Shimada in cigar light.

“Should be in there celebrating,” Jesse spoke, pulling the cigar and letting it hang at his side. He missed the meager illumination immediately. Despite the glow from dying industrial lamps, the cigar had given the archer an otherworldly presence. Painted quite the pretty picture too. Shimada responded with a raised brow at the accusatory inclination to Jesse's words.

“I am not one for such festivities.” He moved closer, stopping to Jesse's right - within touching distance - curved into the wall with his front facing the taller man. He moved so seamlessly. Blending into the darkness. “They become quite handsy when drinking. Perhaps I should have argued against their indulgences.”

“That is as close to an actual apology as I've ever heard from ya!” Jesse returned the cigar to his lips, flopping against the wall opposite the other, one boot coming up flush against the stucco. He wasn't entirely sober himself. Head swimming a little but a few cheap beers were nothing compared to his beautiful mistress whiskey. “Let me guess, they started pawing at your dragon?”

“Indeed.” Shimada stared him down until Jesse turned away. Still the cowboy barked out a laugh.

“Yeah. She has been obsessed with it since ya joined and the musical medic, well, he says it makes his frog seem inferior.” Jesse took a drag, coiling the smoke between his teeth before blowing out into the night air. “You're just experiencing some friendly jealousy.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. Jesse with his thoughts. An old truck rumbled by, the squealing coming from the vehicle screaming for its drive belts to be replaced. Shimada’s head jerked up at the noise, eyes narrowed, scanning the entrance to the alleyway until the sound abruptly stopped. The tail lights cut off, the rear of the truck peeked around the edge of the alley. Lamplight from the street granted a slight view of the jet black color. A pair of drunks stumbled out of the truck, crossing the alley in boisterous revelry at a personal joke.

“Little miss thinks it's beautiful.” Jesse broached the space between them.

“I would not describe it as such.”

“No don’t suppose you would.” The metal of his hand grabbed the cigar, the other coming up to run its digits through his ragged hair. “I’ve seen ya use it. More of a burden for ya huh?” Even nearing a year since the archer had unofficially joined the reformed Overwatch and this subject was one that Jesse knew he could only bring up now because he could blame the alcohol tomorrow for his noisiness.

“Yes.”

He had not been expecting an answer. He had no retort prepared. Jesse struggled with his words, free hand clutching at air.

“A topic for another discussion when you are not so-” Shimada eyed the slight sway to Jesse’s stance. “Inhibited. It is surprising that the musician would be envious.”

The gunslinger made a noise in the back of his throat, clearing it, shifting the cigar around. “They’re kids. They may be fighters but things like this-” Jesse motioned towards where the archer’s tattoo was covered by the yukata. “-give them a sense of normalcy. Let them have their little quirks.” The archer breathed a soft puff of air and glance to the alleyway entrance again. He brought his hands up, crossed over his chest and maintained his silence. “Lucio is just jealous. Kid was proud of his frog, showed it off for days and then you showed up with that and, well, suddenly his frog wasn’t so special.” Jesse rubbed at the back of his head.

“What about yourself? Every other member had some form of marking,” Shimada's gaze returned, boring down, interrogative and… amused. “I would assume that you do as well. Is it not unheard of for military comrades to share a symbol of their unity.”

Sober Jesse would have denied the truth until the cows came home and then stampeded through the watchpoint. Sober Jesse wasn't around. Blame it on the alcohol. 

“The old crew did. Granted I didn't join in willingly,” the barest arch to Shimada's brow had Jesse inhaling around the cigar, stubbing out the rest and shoving the remainder into his pocket. “Long story short I was kind of coerced into getting ink. You know about Deadlock and they had their own brand. Well the new folks at Overwatch didn't much like that I carried around with me a reminder of my outlaw years so none too gently my ass was hauled down to the nearest parlor. Between the big guy holding me down and Reyes barking orders in Spanish they had Deadlock dusted from my record.” During this Jesse had been pawing at his shirt, popping out each button before shimmying his right side free. There, emblazoned on the shoulder blade, was the pristine Overwatch logo down over in bold black and orange. A pair of skeletal wings peeked out the sides. “Morrison wasn't entirely pleased with how I got it but when I found out they all had’em, even Lena. It made the group feel less like they only wanted me for my brains. Not that there's much there but at least they didn't pistol whip ya if you talked back.”

“Is it a burden? Having such a memory?” Jesse shrugged back into the flannel but didn't bother with buttoning it closed. It was late. He’d be heading to bed soon anyway.

“Fella, to quote a wise man, that is a topic for another discussion when I am not so I inhibited,” the archer glared at having his words thrown back in his face. 

“Indeed.” Shimada did not press the issue.

“So, how long have ya been teaching them?” Jesse went through the mechanical motions of lighting the half spent cigar.

“What gave it away?” There it was again. The fleeting appearance of the cocky smirk. Jesse turned away, drawing on his cigar, anything to ignore the knot in his stomach.

“Little miss did actually. When she referred to their teacher as he and not they.” Jesse watched for a reaction and was rewarded with a slight nod of acknowledgement. “After that it was easy enough to figure out who she meant. Seeing as how Reinhardt, Lindholm and your brother have been away these past weeks, that knocked them off the list. Morrison can't play cards for shit either. Never had a good poker face. He has a tick,” Jesse tapped at his forehead, twitching his eyebrow. “Always has. Lucio didn't teach her because he was in on it. Hell Shimada I may not be Sherlock but I got some brains. ‘Sides you're the only one who has come close to beating me.”

“Ms. Song did so rather soundly tonight.”

“I got a pile of y'alls clothing that says otherwise. She may have gotten those dirty mitts on my hat but I believe the night was still mine.” He was down right preening, cheap beer making his head light and heedy.

“None of mine.” The shorter man was staring him down, the brightest twinkle of mischief in those eyes and Jesse had to look away.

“Well you didn't really give me a chance. You were always folding. Especially when the little miss was bouncing out of her seat with a winning hand,” Jesse summoned up the best suspicious, dignified huff he could.

“Are you accusing me of throwing the game?” A genuine snort of amusement followed the words. Shifting his posture against the wall, Shimada tugged the sides of his yukata tighter against the midnight chill.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not.” Jesse waved his free hand through the air, anything to distract from savoring the hint of laughter that had escaped the stoic archer. “Point is I still won. Lost my hat but I took everyone for what they had so I'm happy as a lark.”

“Yes. I may have given up a good hand,” the archer said. “I had a deal to uphold.”

“So ya did cheat,” the smile crept around the cigar, teasing the other man. “How did they even talk ya into it? What did you ask for in return?” Other questions plagued the gunslinger's mind but he found himself able to formulate these few.

“They asked. I obliged. There was no coercion necessary.” Shimada had shifted again, from one leg to another.

“And…” He had only given one answer. Jesse wanted two. His palms itched against his side, fiddling with the cigar to give them something to do.

“And I asked for nothing in return. It is often easier to subdue an enemy without fighting.” Another car rumbled past the alleyway. The vehicle’s belts didn't make a sound. Still the archer watched the truck for a breathe. “As you said, they are still young. They deserve to have brief moments of normalcy.”

“Well I do declare. Mr. Shimada has a soft spot for the little ones huh?” Jesse meant it as a good natured jab, friendly banter, drunk mouth running before the brain could scream shut up.

“It is late.” Shimada pushed off the wall, heading towards the office door. “It would be advisable for you to get some rest.” The boards on the office door rattled their protest at their rough handling. “You will find no pity from me when you are bemoaning a nasty headache.” The archer disappeared into the hideout, leaving Jesse wondering what had just happened. His boot scuffed against the concrete, causing him to gasp when the movement jerked the bruised cartilage of his knee and curse vehemently.

“Well good on ya Jesse. You done scared off the only manageable company on this entire tour. Big mouth.” He spat out of frustration. Outside of casual meetings or their practice sessions talking with the archer man to man was like an albino buffalo. Rare and magical when you saw it but made you wonder if perhaps it had been an illusion in the first place.

He stayed outside for a beat, finishing the cigar and tossing the stub away. Inside the garage it was quiet. Lena was asleep curled up with her back to the room on the ragged office couch. The sounds of drunken snores rising from where Lucio and Hana had thrown themselves. His hat was resting on the ground beside Hana. He left it there. Mindful of the noise his boots made, Jesse adjusted the blanket around the gremlin’s shoulders, tipping her sideways with her head facing the bucket. Another bucket was placed beside Lucio. Probably Lena's doing. He had been against letting them drink in the first place because of this reason. With a sigh he turned to check on the musician. Repeat the same process. Clucking about like a mother hen.

He hefted his cot and returned it to its place against the wall, kicking off his boots. The one blanket provided was flimsy at best. He haphazardly through the moth eaten fabric across his legs after slouching down into the cot. Laying on his stomach, his holster and gun settled within arm’s reach under him, Jesse queued up his music and drifted to sleep. Next to him, silent as the assassin he was, Shimada listened to the music as well, humming under his breath to the now familiar melody.

_ The next evening… _

They had fallen into a pattern. Once the hangovers had been prescribed and dealt with, Jesse was left alone to watch the news. Winston contacted him during the afternoon wanting a report on their findings. The cowboy sent through what Lena and Shimada had given him. Winston's acknowledgement was abrupt, thanking McCree yet the scientist took a moment to question him about personal matters. Convincing the big ape that he was fine took the gunslinger a moment but Winston cut the communication sounding convinced. Jesse quenched the nauseous sensation - lying to the gentle giant always left a bad taste in his mouth.

After that the crew returned as the sun was setting. Dinner was had. Casual conversation. Minor jabbing at Lena's expense for being a poor poker player. Hana and Lucio fought over the single hard working shower until Shimada stepped and decided for them - closing the door to the wash room with a resounding thud. Jesse snuck into the bathroom next. Eventually Hana muscles past Lucio’s protests. They drifted off to their own spaces to varying degrees of exhaustion, subtle good nights exchanged and snores filled the garage where arguments had previously rattled.

Then the message had come - Jesse flipping open the communicator, chilling at the transcription.

 

**Recipient:** 10.29M.76  
**Status:** Urgent  
**Subject:** _ Per Your Leisure _

**Message:  
** Now that you've had a chance to settle down we would like to extend an invitation. We are sure you'll accept. After all we're family.

Within the hour we will be eagerly awaiting your presence at the Panorama - you know the place - for a good old family reunion. To make sure that pretty head doesn't get any ideas of running and gunning we will take that gorgeous gal you're with as payment if you don't show.

We aren't leaving here empty handed.  
See you at the diner kid!

**Attachment:  
** [Sunset.in.Santa.Fe (3.5K MB)]

 

His finger tapped to view, knot in his stomach, throat dry as the desert of the Mojave. Blurred around the edges at first, the image cleared, Jesse's glance darted to the snoring lumps in the darkness. An otherwise beautiful vacation picture of Hana and Lucio in comfortable wear, enjoying a street snack, oblivious to their stalker.

Clutching the communicator, Jesse swung his legs off the cot, pulling on his boots and strapping the holster to his waist. He slipped the glove over his human hand. Too much metal clanging around for silence. When the archer’s annoyed voice caused Jesse to stiffen at being caught the gunslinger turned with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry Shimada. Didn't mean to wake ya,” rummaging for a cigar, grabbing a second speed loader, shoving it into his side pouch.

“Going hunting?” Shimada's voice was heavy with disturbed sleep.

“Nah. Just going for a walk. Maybe find a place to shoot off some steam.” Jesse snatched up a brand new cigar, clutching it between his teeth and biting off the end. “I'll be back by morning.” He smirked around the unlit smoke. “Ya won’t need to send the hounds after me.”

“Dawn.” The archer grumbled, turning, tucking back into the thin blanket.

“Deal.” Jesse crept to the office door, briefly considering taking his serape with him but the bright red was too obvious. He had chosen dark clothing on purpose. Had left the spurs in his bag. The sole obnoxious piece being his infamous belt buckle. “Thanks Shimada.”

A grunt from the lump on the cot was his answer and Jesse left the garage - darting past Lena - out into the night air. The communicator read 2307. Almost midnight. He had a few good hours before Shimada was tracking him down. The thought of the stone faced man drudging through Santa Fe at dawn was ironically humorous. Being an assassin had its advantages Jesse assumed - he had no doubt that the archer would keep his threat.

Out in the night, a wanted man alone to wallow in contained anger, a breeze wafted down the narrow alley. Lining the street in a neat row three vehicles sat as silent sentries. Headlights dead to the world around them. Traversing across town and into the derelict portion would require more than just two steady feet and comfortable boots. The silver jeep with its open top and easy to hardwire system rumbles to life under Jesse's meticulous hands. The familiar feel of the clutch, the scent of dirt encrusted leather encompass the open space. He settles the hat firmly into his head and guns the engine. The communicator sits on the dashboard, reading out directions in a dreary monotone. There was a thrill down his spine knowing that it was a trap he was waltzing into but Deadlock was his problem. They had threatened his companions. As the saying goes, letting sleeping dogs lie and Deadlock as thrown a steak into the pin. Jesse took the bait, gritted his teeth and jerked the steering wheel at the first corner, roaring down the main street in a stolen car.

Getting to the diner was the easy part.  He found the location through the navigation on the communicator. The jeep was ditched in a side street a few blocks from the diner. The streets of the city were stone still, a single vehicle on a weekday night and Jesse darted through the shadows. Boots hollow against the concrete Jesse followed the mental map, turning the corner twenty minutes later to come face to face with the diner. It was no Panorama but a poor imitation rebuilt away from the wreckage of the train. The same bright white and blues and reds. Obnoxiously patriotic without meaning to be.

Tugging his hat down further Jesse shoved one hand around his belt, pushing into the restaurant and the searing fluorescent overhead lights. He wasn't sure what to expect but one waiter and the sounds of a cook banging around behind swinging doors without a patron in sight hadn't been it. The waitress - a petite thing with too much eyeliner and a high set ponytail - waved Jesse to the counter. Without a word she shoved a slip of tissue towards the cowboy and disappeared into the back room. Jesse glanced at the note, a scribbled, child's rendition of the Deadlock skull and wings in own emblazoned on the surface. There was a clang of pots and pans, muttered voices and retreating footsteps. He caught a flash of the waitress’s ponytail as she and, from the sound of it, a second person exited the diner.

The front doors to the diner opened, the beaten metal banging into the wall. Jesse counted four sets of feet. His shoulders stiffened, glove touching the hilt of Peacekeeper. Out of the corner of his eye he counted four men - three of memories the gunslinger wished were still just that.

“Look what we got here,” the sound of a ghost. Jesse smirked, facing the wall behind the counter, eyes absently scanning the dilapidated menu board. A thought from the previous night replaying - he really did have terrible luck with the dead staying dead. “Our  _ nino  _ has finally come back to us.”

“Nah you got me figured wrong,” Jesse swiveled on the stool, the metal groaning for an oil bath.

His past breathed there. Harper. Jacobs. Some upstart new kid he couldn't place. Bridges. Or what was left of the man. The man's right arm was covered completely in a strange half jacket yet the left was a knot of tanned muscle. Harper had a full head of grey hair now. Jacobs had an eye missing: the left. Last Jesse had seen them Overwatch wasn't dealing in mercy. He took a second to count weapons. No visible guns but plenty of hidden knives and arms he could bet.

“I just figured I'd see why y'all wanted this little reunion.” Jesse leaned back, elbows resting on the counter: his hand within easy reach of his sidearm. “That and to warn ya off from my comrades. Ain't nice to be threatening a man's family like that.”

“We ain't threatening nothing kid.” Bridges voice had grown gritty, dirty in the years. The other men said not a word but moved into a semi circle around where Jesse lounged. “Did you already forget that? Deadlock makes promises. We don't have a use for threats.”

“Nah I recall just fine.” Jesse reached for his pouch, flicking open the cover, withdrawing the cigar and placing it between his lips. The movement caused the new kid and Harper to jerk, hands going to their side.  _ Two pistols. Thanks for the info.  _ He tapped the hat back onto the crown of his head. “So what can I do you fellas for?”

“Don't play dumb Jesse. You read the article we sent ya. We're back in business,” Bridges coughed at the end, lungs a sick rattling noise and the fist that smacked against the man's chest rang on contact. Jesse was all too familiar with the sound - smoker’s lungs. Give it a few years and that would be his lungs on the fritz. His prosthetic clenched into a fist before relaxing. 

“I'll pass. Thanks for the offer.” He shifted to the front of the stool, easing off the slick plastic. Again two hands went to where pistols were concealed. The new guy was itchy - Jesse eyed the way that the man's hands were touching the hidden weapon.

“Now this is familiar,” Harper whistled.

“Isn't it though?” Bridges’ laughter was rocks in a tin can. Jesse bristled.

“You were a scrawny thing.”

“Quite the chatterbox too,” Jacobs chimed in sneering.

“Point being you're our kid Jesse. We would like you and that sharp head of yours back,” Bridges placed a hand on Harper's shoulder to silence any further words. “We can even clear that bounty off your head of ya want. Clean slate.”

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but I ain't no yippin' kid anymore.” Jesse searched the four sets of stares for a response. He barely skipped a beat, producing his lighter and igniting the end of his cigar. “Out of respect for our history, I'm gonna pretend I didn't see you folks and we can all go on our own way. I don't feel like staying behind to sip beers and talk about the people we murdered. So I'll give ya a warning. Stopping threatening my kind and I'll let ya leave here with at least your heads intact.” His heels kicked off the stool, thudding against cheap linoleum tiles.

The diner echoed with the sound of a shot; a pulse pistol firing in close quarters.

It happened quick, faster than a fly could blink. The kid had his gun out and trained before anyone could stop him. The hard firing weapon kicking back in shaking hands as overeager fingers clenched too hard on the trigger. All Jesse saw was the flash of blue light and a sudden searing pain arched like lightning through Jesse's left arm and shoulder. The force of the shot staggered him back against the bar. His good hand raising to instinctively cover the wound at the joining of cybernetics and flesh. That punk bastard had shot him right in the receiver. He could barely move the prosthetic, internal components grinding, wheezing against each other as they took their final breaths.

Viscous beryl liquid oozed from the cracks snaking down the prosthetic. His other hand swung around, grabbed the revolver, defensive stance, metal limb limp at his side, Peacekeeper trained the shooter: the twitchy young idiot. Teeth grinding together against nerves that were burning, synthetic synapses misfiring as another glob of the liquid hit the linoleum dinner floor.

“Seems your recruiting practices still suck,” Jesse hissed, straightening but revolver maintained its steady bead.

“Don't make’em like they used to,” Bridges covered arm snapped up, flash of steel and a knife buried itself hilt deep into the shooter’s throat. The man fell to the ground, gurgling around the blade. Jacobs kicked the body, silencing any further noise.

“Pity that one showed promise.” Harper's pity was waylaid by a tinge of irony.

“As you can see, Jesse, we haven't changed much. Now, unless you want to see how loud that lovely girl of yours screams, you'll rid your head of this notion you're leaving here alone.” Extracting the knife, Bridges shook off the blood and folded the blade into a compartment concealed in his arm. Jesse saw why the Deadlock member had his arm covered: it was a prosthetic.

“Quite a fine limb ya got there,” Jesse ignored the appearance of a gun in Jacobs’ hands: automatic handgun. Old model, a relic Jesse might have marveled at under different circumstances. The twisted notion that they had bettered his odds of escaping this situation caused Jesse to bite down a wry chuckle. “When did you get that piece?” Not that he cares. Keep them talking. Ignore the blaze from a broken prosthetic. Breath. In. Out. Steady hand. Steady mind.

“This?” Bridges’ beamed with pride, shrugging off the covering to reveal the metal was the whole limb and even disappeared into the torn off sleeve of the loose shirt. The appendage replaced; perhaps even the shoulder and part of the chest. “Thank your buddies in Blackwatch. Got me real good in that raid. Torn the arm clean off from the explosion. Gave me up for dead.”

Bridges flexed the digits one at a time. Index first and down the line. Jesse zeroed in on the movement. Those senses fighting to ignore the blaze on his arm noted the way the joints ground into each other. Low end construction and manufactured from heavier materials. Jesse bet one good blow from just the broadside of the arm would crack skulls. His own prosthetic hung at his side. A deadweight and useless, the fingers sluggish to respond, too much coolant pooling on the floor. 

“Truth is I would've been coyot’ food but that just wasn't in the cards. Some poor bastard dead besides me - head blown to bits, nasty stuff, brains everywhere - but his shirt was intact so I tied off the wound and walked my happy ass back to base.” Bridges continued, the sound of an old man reminiscing about better times. “Next day the boys find a stolen prototype in the warehouse and wouldn't you know it the damn thing fit! Not sure who we stole it from. What I got here is just the improved version.”

“You always liked to hear yourself squawk.” Peacekeeper slipped, head shaking during the monologue. Jesse straightened through sheer force. The three Deadlock members tensed.

“And you enjoy hiding that scared little boy behind sarcasm,” Bridges sneered. “We could trade insults all day but by the looks of that arm of yours you ain't got much fight left. So Jesse I'll ask again, you coming back or are we making your girl scream?”

Harper and Jacobs edged closer. The former’s hands rising, reaching and the later fingering the trigger of the automatic. Jesse shifted his weight. The silence in the diner pressed down, suffocating and tense.

“I got a better idea.” Jesse adjusted his grip on the revolver, clicking off the safety, palm growing slick with sweat. “I leave here. Let ya live and pretend this never happened.” Teeth ground together around a pretentious smile.

“We can't do that Jesse. Sorry son but this is gonna hurt ya more than me,” Bridges’ glanced at Harper.

Reacting, Jesse leveled his revolver at Jacobs, keeping the man with the other gun in place and kicking out, boot connecting with Harper's chest. The man stumbled back, gasping and Jesse turned on his heel, vaulting over the counter. Boots hit the ground as a shot rang out. He ducked in instinct, rolling through the kitchen doors - another shot shattered the glass window, splattering shards against Jesse's back. The gunslinger shouted when his prosthetic banged against the floor, jarring the burning nerves. Curses flowed from Jesse's mouth. He stayed low, running along the wall, throwing himself behind a shelf of dishes. Another shot. Metal yelped at being dented. 

Bridges’ yelling followed the bullets. The droplets of coolant left a neon trail. Jesse dared to peek over the pots, spying Harper on the other end of the isle. The other two hadn't followed. He needed to know where they went - walking into one trap was easy. Two in the same night and he’d never hear the end of it. Gripping Peacekeeper Jesse exhaled, lined up a shot and fired. The bullet caught Harper in the foot and the man roared, toppling over into a furious heap.

“Jesse you're being insufferable!” Bridges’ anger was palatable. Jesse picked the sound out as still being on the other side of the kitchen door. Where was Jacobs? Moving, Jesse darted past the shelves, further away from the squealing man with a bullet in his foot, clutching Peacekeeper close and searching for the back door. He’d heard the cook and waitress leave but where.

Heavy footsteps alerted the gunslinger before the pulse projectile cut a chunk off the brim of his hat. Peacekeeper jerked around, guessing at the origin of the shot. Nothing but cookware. A flash of light on met could mean anything - a skillet, gun, or knife. His chest hurt, constricted with the strain of his nerves misfiring, frantic to correct the loss of control to the left arm. He couldn't stay in one spot and using the howls of Harper as cover Jesse passed the stoves and burners and ovens. Eyes searching from a half crouched position. His revolver cradled against his chest, finger balanced beside the trigger, thumb rubbing at well worn grooves for what minor comfort they offered. There. To his left. The door to the outside and standing in front of it was Jacobs.

Jesse pressed his back against the oven - heat from recent usage burning into his flannel. Uneven steps told him that Harper was moving again. The screams had stopped but the labored breathing to mirror Jesse's own was a dead giveaway. For a split second he put his gun down, palming a quart lot on the shelf in front of him and tossed the thing at Jacobs. The man stumbled, dodging the projectile. Jesse followed, barreling into the man with his right shoulder down, catching Jacobs in the sternum. Peacekeeper held in an iron grip as the two collided, the gun firing and the bullet sent straight into Jacobs’ stomach. Both men tumbled out the back door. The Santa Fe night taken over by the sounds of a desperate situation.

Righting himself Jesse spared a glance for the man clenching his stomach - the automatic gone from Jacobs’ grasp. The shadows of the alley hide the location of where the gun had skidded but Jesse was already moving. He took stock in a heartbeat. The alley had no immediate outlet to the street. A dead end to his right. Stacks of garbage and crates ready for pick up by the morning crew littered the old brick wall. To the left the alley split two ways. The back door slammed open behind him. Spinning on his heel, Jesse fired, Peacekeeper singing twice to scare Harper back into the diner.

The curve up ahead. He had a second. Between Jacobs continues grunts (dying gasps really), the throbbing numbness starting to creep up his arm (a sure fire sign the nerves had worn themselves thin) and the threat of Harper pinning a bullet into the back of his head, Jesse dodged right. Right into three pulse rifle barrels. Between their heads was the promise of the open street and a chance to escape.

They looked as doe eyed as he felt. He was faster on the recovery. Years of running from all manner of threats honing skills green gilled gang members didn't have. On instinct his revolver fired. One. Two. Thre-. Peacekeeper clicked, dead. The speed loader was in his pouch. He couldn't reach and reload with one hand. Two dead bodies sprawled out on the concrete. “Sorry fella,” Jesse swung the heavy metal of the gun up, cracking the third rifleman across the jaw. The third body slumped forward.

His boots stopped in their tracks as a round exploded against the garbage bins to his right. Showered in refuse, Jesse turned - the street lights at the end of the alley taunting. Some unnamed grunt hoisted a rifle, smoke pouring from the rocket launcher attachment. Harper was hobbling over. Bridges stood there, arms crossed, the appearance of a disappointed parent than a gang leader. Four men stood around. Six to one odds. Not terrible.

“I told ya boy you ain't leaving that easy,” Bridges hacked phlegm, chest rattling, a show as alpha.

“I don't listen very well. Never did,” Jesse angled his body, hand hovering over his revolver. He would use her as a club. She was dead weight otherwise. A few scraps could be buffed out later. “Figured you’d remember that much old man.” A facade of all show. His mind trying to figure a million ways to get out.

“I ain't forgotten. Why I got a contingency plan,” Bridges tossed a holopad into the space between sides. Jesse glared as an image appeared. Flickering at first, the device long past its lifespan, circuits straining to cooperate, the picture was sinister. The garage. The safe house. No thugs surrounding it. Still as the night.

Jesse bit his tongue, kicking the holopad back across the divide but the image remained. “What's the angle Bridges? Looks like an abandoned auto shop to me. There's a hundred of’em around the outskirts of town.” Keep his voice calm. Give nothing away even as his heart pounded against his chest. The four could handle themselves but the picture did not show any armed men approaching or a snipe hidden in a nest. He was missing something. His mouth stalling while his mind raced to piece together the puzzle. “Hell of a plan. Didn't know Deadlock was into scrap and old cars.”

Bridges’ face didn't change. Still smug and condescending. He reached into a pack strapped to his side and pulled out a trigger. Jesse hid the cold chill that danced down his spine. “Contingency plan is kind of a misnomer.” Bridges held out the trigger, flicking off the cap, thumb caressing the device like a lover. “More like a guarantee.”

A bomb. The trigger was to a bomb. Jesse didn't need to be told. His eyes focused on the holopad still screening a peaceful image of the garage with his companions, his teammates, his family inside. The irony almost caused him to laugh in a mixture of disbelief and blind hysteria. It was his own plan. A ploy he had used a hundred times in Deadlock. Bait out the target, make them an offer and then when balk make sure they can't escape. How had they rigged the place? When? He had been there all during the day. Then it hit. He saw it. The truck from the previous night. The one with the grinding belt parked just to the side.

Bridges’ finger tapped the trigger, applying pressure and the holopad flickered. Light as brilliant as the sun engulfed the picture. Jesse's stared. Unable to form a word. A torrent of emotion wrapping, enveloping the cowboy and released as a choked out cry. The night sky, miles away, erupted with the ghastly display. Mind blanking, the holopad image faded, static before dying completely.

Faces flashed across his mind. Hana's taunting smiles, toting around his hat. The young woman thrust into the spotlight, hiding behind a smile and bubble gum. Hanzo’s stoic face, fleeting smirks and the subtle taunts. The dime novel he had been reading and Jesse was eager to pester the archer about: poke fun at the man for indulging in a past time the cowboy enjoyed. Lucio’s music, upbeat attitude, beaming smile. Lena’s perpetual cheer and quick wit. Her understanding of what Jesse needed even when he didn’t:  _ You have a team beside you again now love. Don't dismiss it. _

“So Jesse,” smarmy, greasy, immoral, any number of adjectives to describe the crease to Bridges’ face.“What'll it be kid? You coming quiet or we doing this like last time and dragging your cold body home?”

Heavy breathes, his chest heaving, standing through will alone, Jesse stared down the man from a nightmare. If he had a bullet he could put it between those eyes. If he had two working arms he could take them all down. 

“Fine.” Jesse relaxed his stance. Two of the young bloods crept closer, rifles pointed at his chest. “A family reunion sounds kinda nice.” He growled, grinding the words out. A grunt on each side, rough hands grabbing an arm in anxious but firm hold.

Jesse snapped out his leg, sweeping one man off his feet, snatching the rifle in his hand and leveling the weapon at the other grunt. The gun slammed into Jesse's shoulder as the echo of the shot bounced off the enclosed alley walls. A second shot. Another dead no names grunt. Then a third and Jesse faltered. Feet splayed out, stumbling forward, the rifle clattered against the concrete. His hand touched the fresh wound, blood seeping into his cloths from the hole in his right hip. His leg threatened to crumple. Instantly cauterized, agony coursed renewed through the cowboy's body. He pushed it down, pure adrenaline, drawing Peacekeeper. Even without bullets the weapon was deadly.

The smoking end of the pulse rifle held in Harper’s hands was trained in Jesse's head. The picture of the garage, glowing crimson, alive in flames and fumes, Jesse staggered forward, the revolver catching the next grunt that lunged at him. The man fell to the side, shaken but came in again. Jesse felt his lungs knocked lose as the man crashed into his stomach. Roaring Jesse beat against the man's head with the butt of revolver. The gunslinger received an abrupt fist into his gut. With a cough and growl, Jesse picked his leg up, left knee cracking between the grunt’s legs. The man released his hold, gasping, choking and Jesse brought Peacekeeper up and slammed against the man's temple with all the fury of man with nothing to lose. The body crumpled - portions of the skull missing. 

Another shot. Jesse fell to one knee his leg giving out. He spat blood. His lungs burns. His body was a temple to pain and the agony was bridled only by the emotional overload. Again and again he saw the garage in smoldering hellfire. The new wound opened in his lower abdomen. The river of crimson leaking out was pathetically small compared to the damage. The last nameless gang member was pushed over, Harper still holding the rifle and Bridges barking an order. Jesse glared at the men, panting, holding back moans of pain. The man reached out to grab Peacekeeper and Jesse turned on the man, snarling like a rabid cornered animal. The feral and ferocity in the gunslinger's eyes born from the devil himself. The grunt backed away, glancing from the injured outlaw to his leader.

“Jesse you never knew when to give up,” Bridges closed the distance, crouched down and ripped Peacekeeper out of Jesse's hand. Examining the revolver, the man clicked open the cartridge and disassembled the piece from the rest of the gun. Holding the piece in his metal hand, Bridges closed his fist. The sound of groaning, protesting steel. The cartridge hit the concrete, dented, broken. Bridges snapped the spur off the handle with the pressure from: his thumb against the joint. The pieces of the revolver dead on the ground in an alley in Santa Fe.

“Bastard,” Jesse spat blood at the man. Bridges wiped the spittle away with the sinister noise of a chuckle.

“That's your answer then?” The Deadlock leader stood, staring down at the outlaw. Jesse returned the glare, gulping in breathe and maddeningly defiant. Bridges scoffed, prosthetic slamming into Jesse's jaw and crumbling the gunslinger into an unconscious heap. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships will happen. Eventually. Just not right away. Will add more tags as things happen but, as it stands right now, I don't want to give away too much with the tags.
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!


	5. It's Too Late to Cry; Too Broken To Move On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "A Drop in the Ocean" by Ron Pope.

It wasn’t the abusive, throaty snores from Lucio.

It wasn’t the mild sleep mutterings of Hana between raspy breaths.

It wasn’t even the shake of the garage as a building down the road was demolished. A strange hour.

It was the silence, the quiet, the distinct lack of those soothing chords pausing in their refrain to play the same tune again and again that woke him.

Dawn had not come. The silence of the music saw him rolling over, tossing off the threadbare blanket and swinging his legs over the side of the cot. Night still lingered, tenderly grasping around Santa Fe and cloaking the city’s darker tendencies. Elbows on his knees, he stretched one calf and then the other, working out kinks from the sparse bedding provided. He couldn't shake the weight of uncertainty. A sixth sense had roused him. The uneasy feeling of … wrongness..

The serape was neatly folded on the cowboys’ cot. His spurs lay nearby, tossed aside on the crimson and gold cloth. The metal bore a dull shimmer, coated with dirt from the road. Even the chest plate leaned against the wall, removed from its case and untouched. But of course from all of his gear, the hat was gone.  The armor that may save his life left behind to gather dust, but that hat would never be far from either his head or his hands.

Despite the protest of both his cot and his uneasy mind’s wandering thoughts, he rose. He readjusted the sweatpants around his waist and tugged his loose shirt into a more presentable state, both habits of maintaining image despite his inner worries. Bare feet moved soundlessly against the concrete floor. After passing the quiet form of Lena sprawled out on the couch, he closed the boarded door to the office space with slow, careful movements.

The pre-dawn hours concealed his bedraggled appearance, despite his minor attempts at otherwise. Hair akimbo. Spiked in varying angles. Wearing sweatpants that covered over his toes paired with a shirt that displayed the most obnoxious wording he had ever seen, he was glad to be hidden under the cloak of night. The quiet of alley offered the solstice to think.

\-----

_“Deep breaths, brother,” electronic laughter grated against frayed nerves. Was he really so obvious? Despite the younger Shimada's light words, the human inflection was buried under the machine. Genji's hand touched his shoulder, purposefully over the clothed side, avoiding intimacy. Ghosts of pain still lingered on his flesh._

_“I promise nothing,” even still he drew in a breath, counted and released._

_“We are just meeting them. You do not need to make a decision,” the cyborg removed his hand, taking the point and tapping at the keypad beside the imposing steel door._

_The interior was empty. The combination of his own soft tapping footsteps and Genji's near silent movement echoed like a thunderstorm. His mind wandered, taking in the hangar bay and the distinct lack of anything. Skid marks from the massive tires of a transport blackened the ground. Containers with tarps thrown haphazardly over their labels. The edge of one read simply “-munition”. His mind was quick to label this place as storage._

\-----

His fingers danced across the hem of the ridiculous shirt; a gift from his brother. A physical reminder of solidarity slow in bloom between broken siblings. The meaning of the words was obnoxious enough. He had sworn Genji he would sooner throw the shirt away than wear the tacky attire but Genji wasn't here and couldn't gloat about small victories. The cyborg had always been the master in the game of subtle annoyances. His buttons and tics easy marks underneath of the younger Shimada's expert hands. The shirt was the latest in a long line of wins Genji had garnered but Hanzo would never admit to.

It was not dawn but a cursory patrol of the garage revealed no cowboy. The concrete numbing his feet, he turned back to the garage - entering with the same silence. Lena had shifted, one arm thrown over the side of the couch, the blanket wrapped around her legs. Changing the loose sleep clothes for slightly more form fitting exercise and casual pieces, he slipped on a plain pair of shoes to the chorus of Lucio and Hana's snores. With hair tied up (ribbon left behind), he snatched the communicator off the cot and strapped the device into an arm holster, the wireless set of ear buds began bleeding a fast beat into his head. McCree wasn't the only one to have Lucio alter certain aspects of the communicator.

The streets in the early hours were deserted. A stumbling drunk here and there warranted a wary eye and kept his senses on alert. Santa Fe has revealed some interesting secrets - hot in the day, cold at night. The information he had gathered was minimal at best. Deadlock, despite the rumors, concealed their activities well.  Too well.

He had stopped halfway through the run at the site of a recent demolition. Five minutes of curious inspection and sharp eavesdropping onto the muted conversations of the civilians and law gathered revealed that the explosion wasn't for construction. The burnt, hollowed out remains of a truck still smoldering amongst dying embers confirmed the low hum of mutterings.

The process was a hassle. Between the shove of bottle necking onlookers and local enforcement, he took pictures from chest height, using the disguise of checking messages to snap the photos. He marked the location, intent to return later, leaving the wreckage with a final picture of the whole of the damage. The photographs were sent off along with an estimation of the time of detonation and coordinates back to Gibraltar.

He rounded the corner of the street, dodging into the alleyway and removing one ear bud, shutting off the music. Sweat caused the breathable mesh of the tank top to stick to his chest. The digits on the device indicated dawn would arrive soon. Still no cowboy. He had seen no indication of McCree's current whereabouts and the discovery of what was a car bomb had him itching.  He tapped the messaging icon and began to rapidly hit the buttons, beginning a message to his brother.

 ** _0416 > _**Can you run a search?

The communicator was flipped to the photographs. He studied the details between the heads of civilian audience. The pieces were missing but an explosion via a car bomb screamed terroristic. The circumstances did not align with the activity he had uncovered concerning the new Deadlock. They dealt in weapons and illegal substances not blatant destruction. He loosened a fist, breathing out, releasing the frustration at not picking McCree's brain about Deadlock more thoroughly.

His communicator beeped - a high pitched chirp.

 ** _A.07.18G98  
_** What do you need? It's early there. Couldn't sleep?

 ** _0436 > _**Run a search of the local news. Present and past three months.

Pointedly he ignored the concern. Personal matters didn't matter right now. They had worked towards reconciling but not every moment was a moment for chatter. He was sent here with a job and this recent discovery produced more questions than it answered.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ Any specifics? Gossip? American sayings? Cowboy idioms? ;3

 **0438 >** Be serious.  
Incidents concerning gang activity.

 **A.07.18G98**  
Spoiled sport  
You are NO fun sometimes…

 ** _0438 > _**This is not a time for your games.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ I'll see what I can find. Give me a few hours.

The device was tossed onto the cot, along with his shirt. After Changing into fresh clothes, he measured his steps to not wake his comrades, grabbing a tanto and shoved it into the holster strapped to his calf along the way. One phrase rang in his head. Genji had been amongst these people longer than him and yet the misuse of the idiom nagged at the back of his head. It needed to be corrected.

 ** _0455 > _**Spoil sport. 

The response was not immediate and that was curious. Usually Genji was quick with the snappy comebacks. The lack of one had him raising a brow at the device before leaving the garage.

 **A.07.18G98**  
Yes  
That's you

 **0501 >** No.  
That is the phrase. Not “spoiled sport”.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ McCree teach you that one? ;)

 _ **0501 >** _Unlike some people I pay attention to the mannerisms of our associates.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ Sure………. ;)

 ** _0502 > _**Send me the information when you have it.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ Aye aye captain!

 ** _0503 > _**I require one more favor.

 _ **A.07.18G98**  
_ You're going to owe me

 **0503 >** Yes Yes     
Can you track Agent McCree's communicator’s signal?

 **A.07.18G98**  
Of course  
Why?????

He tapped the device, pondering on how to approach the situation. It was not yet dawn. There was no need to be hunting down the cowboy but the destruction was nagging at the back of his head. Combined with what he had managed to research on previous Deadlock and McCree's own files, the circumstances did not sit well on his chest. 

 ** _0510 > _**He has not returned.

 **A.07.18G98**  
Are you worried? :3  
I'll get the location just give me a second

A moment later, his reply half typed out, it was interrupted by the coordinates displayed across the screen. He input them without hesitation.

 **A.07.18G98**  
It's an old dinner  
I'll send a picture in a minute  
Anything else?

 ** _0514 > _**No. That is all.

The communicator beeped showing the strange little thumbs up sent through but he didn't bother with responding, waiting for the promised photograph to arrive and memorizing the gaudy facade once it appeared on the screen. The location was a few hours drive away. He did not have access to a vehicle. Ducking back into the garage, he opted out of the sneakers and slipped the metallic leg bracers in place, shoving the jeans awkwardly over them.

How the cowboy’s communicator had gotten so far in such a short time and had not returned was another notch in an already nerve wracking set of circumstances. McCree's cavalier attitude of handling things on his own time in his own way was known all too well to Overwatch. A loose cannon whenever an idea formed in his head, McCree was hard to bridle and was prone to bucking back against restrictions. The many many tallies on the cowboy's record had warned him. Meeting the man had reinforced those caveats.

\-----

_Confirmation that the abandoned hangar was converted storage came in the form of a partially dismantled hover bike. Parts strewn across the concrete floor, booted feet stuck out at an awkward angle from underneath the vehicle’s chassis. His brother approached the half concealed figure and Hanzo stayed back, arms loosely crossed in observation._

_“McCree,” Genji's voice bounced off the walls of the hangar - echoing in silence. A muttered string of curses followed the resounding bang of flesh on metal. A wrench was sent skidding across the floor, stopping with a clang against Hanzo's alloy bracer._

_“Don't sneak up on me like!” The voice was deep, smoke husky and gravelly with a growl. The back of a boot kicked against the ground, wheeling a robust man out from under the vehicle. “That ninja shit of yours is only so funny.”_

_“Apologies McCree,” Genji spoke quickly, canned excitement but the jerky movement of his arms betrayed him. “I'll make more noise next time. I was unaware that your hearing had started going.”_

_“Now wait a minute,” the response was snapped, the mechanic rolling up into his backside with indignation. “I ain't that old.”_

_“Of course you aren't,” Genji's tone oozed smugness behind the visor._

_Rising to his feet, movements telling of joints older than their body, the man wiped down the oil from each digit. The grease covered rag stopped moving between massive hands when the stranger - this McCree - laid eyes upon the elder Shimada. It wasn't anger or fury in the bearded man's gaze. It was contempt and disbelief. Hanzo tightened his grip around his biceps, tensing, preparing for a brawl._

_“Nice to meet ya. Name’s McCree,” one oil-stained mitt extended out towards him. Hanzo glanced from the appendage to the owner and back again but made no move to take the peace offering. Hard lines of restrained emotions tensed the tawny man's bicep and forearm. The sparkle of a warm welcome did not reach McCree's eyes._

_“Hanzo.” He said simply. No need to elaborate. They would know his surname. They would undoubtedly know his transgressions. The testament to his failures walked among them._

_“Not much of a talker is he?” McCree groused, the hand dropped, turning to address Genji directly. The cyborg in question had shuffled across the floor during their assessments. Now one arm was draped around Hanzo's shoulders in a brotherly manner. That hand squeezed Hanzo's shoulder, warning against agressive action._

_“Nope but get a little sake in him and he'll talk off your ear,” Hanzo stiffened, shooting a glare at his sibling. Genji laughed at his own joke._

_“I'll take your word for it.” McCree's words held a terse, forced humor - for Genji's benefit. “You here for business or pleasure Shimada?”_

_“Business,” short, clipped answers. He brushed off Genji's arm and settled for standing straighter, looking down despite the height difference._

\-----

The hover bus stopped two blocks away from the coordinates displayed on his communicator. The public transportation in the city wasn't top notch, but no one questioned the silent Japanese man boarding while wearing a too large hoodie, strange metal boots and loose fitting jeans. He took the time on the drive to examine the photographs from the explosion. Genji sent him a series of local news paper clippings detailing minor gang activity. Mentions of small drug busts, two women freed from a believed human trafficking ring, and so on. But the one that caught his eye was the first mention of Deadlock. One of the photographs in the news article showed a man wearing a bomber jacket with the skull and wings of the gang emblazoned on the back. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, the implications setting off sirens. When the articles stopped coming, Genji's message followed hot on their heels.

 **A.07.18G98**  
The diner is hours away from the safe house  
What is McCree doing that far out?  
Brother what’s going on? 

He didn’t respond, he wasn't too sure of he situation himself and had nothing to go on other than his uneasiness and gut feelings. The gaudy red and blue exterior was visible under the hazy morning sun. The communicator indicated his destination behind him, down the street and across from a restaurant.  The pavement was sparsely populated. A sleepy drunkard. A business couple meandering down the opposite way. He stopped beside a beaten hunk of metal on wheels and there, sitting innocently on the driver's seat, was McCree's communicator. Trying the handle revealed that the vehicle was locked. Curling his arm into the sleeve of his hoodie, he smashed the window, snatched the device, and turned on his heel. One intrigued glance from a local was dismissed with a withering glare.

The code to get into the cowboy's comm was easy: release date for his favorite gaudy western movie. Of course it was also McCree's call number. The password was essentially “password”. Hanzo rolled his eyes, closing the open navigation feature and selecting the messages. The last one contained two words. He found himself bolting down the street to the dinner, metal cracking against concrete.

The diner appeared deserted: darkened windows and a quiet exterior suggested a lack of activity. Mindful of prying eyes Hanzo tested the door and then slipped in through the front, crouching down against the wall, and scanning the interior. Cracks on the linoleum floor pooled the distinct dried coolant of prosthetic. The once brilliant beryl coloration had turned dull. Mechanical coolant was different depending on the grade used and the cowboy's arm was a special case. Hanzo scraped at the dry puddle, raising the chips between his fingers to examine closer. There was no guarantee it belonged to McCree but Hanzo wasn't a betting man.

A pool of blood was a foot away: smearing indicating a hasty clean up job. Track lines told of a body being dragged away. Hanzo fancied the idea that McCree had taken out at least one of his antagonists.

The trickled line of blue hopped over the counter. He followed, vaulting across to land in a half crouch, eyes pursuing the trail. His mind worked through a mental map of McCree's movements. At least one aggressor had been handled. The gunslinger had shuffled through the kitchen. Another splash of crimson chipped and drying collected on the other side of the kitchen door. Given the proximity to the coolant trail Hanzo noted this could belong to his comrade - confirmation McCree had been injured. Shot or stabbed or otherwise punctured, with few details he could not be certain.

Hanzo followed the trail through the kitchen, noting the staggered blood splattering on either side of the coolant. One set of footprints smeared and combined the two liquids. The soles did not belong to the cumbersome boots McCree wore. The footprint too wide, the pressure on the sole too heavy. This person had been walking with a limp.

The first indication of McCree's own state appeared in the alleyway. Boot prints, the disturbance of a scuffle on the ground and the mixture of coolant and blood found Hanzo standing, observing the corridor. Two bodies - no, three - had been dragged out. By the estimation of blood left behind at least one of those was six feet under now. He traced the drag marks and stopped, a glint in the far end of alley catching his eye.

One hand going to where the tanto was concealed he approached. The shine coming from an object half covered by rotting cardboard. Metal toes shoved aside a box revealing the broken and mangled pieces of an all too familiar gun.

\-----

_“Again,” he chided himself, raising the bow, zeroing in on the target, bowstring taut under practices hands. The last arrow hit off center. His concentration disrupted by the weight of observing eyes. The unwelcome guest stuffed away into the nook the doorway provided._

_The watchpoint offered training rooms and shooting galleries but they did not offer silence. The grind of overworked practice bots and unsettling hum of hard light targets rattled his concentration. Not from any fault of their own but with the promise that those spaces were the roaming grounds of one man he studiously avoided promoted the storage hangar to unofficial practice hall._

_The arrow nicked just left of the bullseye. The bow lowered, dropped to his side as clipped words barked forth - “If you have no business here then be gone.”_

_“Hello to you too,” smoke filled sarcasm followed by the jingle of ridiculous spurs and sentiment._

_He turned, face impassive, shoulders stiff, a posture holding back a retort. Rising to the level of the taunt would do no good. Since coming here the dance had been the same. One step forward and two back -  the cowman holding his tongue for the benefit of the team but the discontent radiated from the broad man like a tsunami. If he stayed too long or lingered too often Hanzo knew the storm would erupt. He was the unmistakable catalyst after all. McCree stopped just shy of being too close._

_“Genji sent you.” The words were a statement: facts with unrest laced through their syllables._

_Since their introduction around the hoverbike, the rough around the edges marksman did not favor Hanzo’s presence. Genji had explained as such: McCree was a man with a long temper and even longer grudge. He was here for his brother. No one else. Avoiding the cowman was a distasteful side effect of the past. He would live and face the boiling confrontation when it erupted. Right now, Hanzo shifted, bringing up the bow and beginning the process of storing the weapon. There would be no patience or state of mind found in practicing anymore._

_“Athena said someone was abusing the empty cargo.” McCree replied. The cowman’s hooded eyes mindful, watching the ebb and flow of muscle as Hanzo’s dismantled the bow. With the disturbance, the archer knew he would not be continuing practice. The none too subtle distaste the gunslinger harbored - though unspoken - settled against Hanzo’s skin like crackling thunder._

_“The cargo is safe.” Hanzo snapped, swinging the weapon across his back, stepping around the thick force that was the gunslinger. “Your concern is misplaced.” The metallic clink of his bracers echoed the cold inflection of the words, his body carried away from the thunderstorm that was the serape wearing, cigar smoking, gun totting fool._

_“Shimada.” He kept walking, ignoring the command in the tone. “Shimada.” Running away? No. The man wore his emotions on plain sight. This was leaving the fight before it began - heading the brawl off at the pass. There was no white flag because there was no war as far as Hanzo was concerned. Being here, at this tucked away base in a jagged landscape, was for the benefit of a tattered relationship the others wisely kept their noses out of. McCree would do well to acknowledge what the rest of the crew already did. Don't poke the dragon._

_He left the hangar bay, secluded away in the room they had assigned him and buried his nose into every file the AI could provide concerning the gunslinger. The next morning he lingered in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to steam perhaps listening to the half muted roar of the gunslinger demanding to know why they allowed Genji's brother amongst them. The word brother spat out like venom._

\-----

Hanzo still had the faintest scars on his palms where the broken mug sliced into his palm.

His communicator chirped, stiffening his spine before exhaling. The message was from Genji - the sound saying so without looking - and he did not answer. He still had too many uncertainties.

He glanced around, and spying no prying eyes in the area, grabbed the crumpled cylinder and dented barrel. Peacekeeper was never too far from McCree's side. Moving the pieces to one hand, he snatched up the hat. The accessory sat innocently on the grimy ground - a torn brim indicative of a close call. Hanzo placed the hat on a knee, the other hand still caressing the battered, stained handle of the revolver while his free hand tapped on the holopad.

It crackled to life, image fuzzy and distorted yet unmistakable. His grip tightened on the barrel, pressing the metal into his palm as the still image of McCree wavered in the sickly hue of blue holo light. Blood coated the man's head, prosthetic a broken mess of worthless metal hanging limp. An unknown hand bunched in McCree's hair, the only force keeping the gunslinger’s body upright. The damage was belayed by the unconscious, serene expression on the man's face.

The thought that the fool had left his armored breastplate behind groused across the archer’s head. McCree's obvious unconscious state gave no hints to the cowboy's physical being. The potential for further injuries not immediately apparent creased Hanzo's brow as he studied the image presented. The holopad was of little help - the static picture and the blue tinge to it all concealed more than it showed.

Hanzo blinked when the image disappeared, fuzzing out with a static crackle. What appeared next had his breath hitch - a near perfect replica of the safe house. The alleyway layout was wrong. The alley behind the garage did not contain a dead end. The image was blurred before blossoming in brilliant angry reds, the building demolished under the force of the blast.

The holopad quieted, Hanzo sitting back on his heels, his own communicator pulled out to scan through the photographs of the bombsight earlier. This was no coincidence. He scooped up the holopad, the device dead in his hand. Tapping on the activation button revealed the beaten image of the cowboy once more and Hanzo committed it to memory. The holopad was deposited in the hat along with the pieces of the revolver. He knew he would find no more clues here. The gun, hat, and blood told a story of a struggle and death, with McCree already gone.

His communicator chirped again. He returned to the vehicle. No keys in the ignition but he recognized the evidence of tampering. The engine choked and sputtered to life under his hands. Doors locked, he took a moment to glance at the messages left unread on his communicator.

 **A.07.18G98**  
I am going to assume you haven't answered me because you don't want to admit to not knowing…

The younger Shimada knew him too well. Hanzo grunted in acknowledgement to Genji's assessment. His thumb quickly slide the message away, reading the next one. Much the same.

 **A.07.18G98**  
What did you find at the diner?  
Where is McCree?

He didn't know. He had suspicions. He typed out a reply then deleted the words. This was news better expressed in person. The others still waited for him at the safe house. They would need calm heads when pursuing those that had taken their ridiculous cowman. McCree's communicator buzzed. He opened the third message.

 **Unknown** _  
_ We will take what is ours.

The sentence appeared under a haunting image. It was McCree. He was alive. One eye swollen shut. A crooked grin. A tooth missing. Blood clinging to the shirt on his right hip. Hanzo closed the message, cursing the buffoon’s foolish actions: diving head first into the den of his past without a backup plan. Getting captured like a common grunt. The myriad of emotions creating a turmoil that the archer was keen to dump on the cowboy's head when next he saw him.

 **0846 >** McCree has been taken captive.  
I believe it be Deadlock.  
Do you have the articles I requested?

The communicator clattered into the passenger seat, hitting the broken bits of Peacekeeper. Hanzo gripped the cracked leather of the steering wheel, throwing the racket vehicle into drive and breaking three different traffic laws returning to the garage. The image of a broken man burned into his mind’s eye.

\-----

_They fought. Nothing as brutal as the past. Words exchanged in their tilted, fast paced native language. The tone enough to ward off wandering ears and noses from interrupting. The conversation was one they danced around a myriad of times during the past month yet Hanzo adamantly refused to join the skeleton crew that was Overwatch. Genji came this time with the promise of Hanzo's freedom to move not being tethered but the archer balked. That offer incurred raised voices and harsh words. He could not. Committing to another organization, another entity that’d already proven itself corrupt, pierced the memory of a scar that never healed._

_Genji left him, a dash of green anger seeking out solstice in the silence of meditation. Hanzo remained, standing in the middle of the converted cargo bay, body stung taunt like his bow string._

_A word could snap him._

_“You don't have to snap his head off every time,” the gunslinger wasn't quiet but turmoil in the mind was a disconcerting distraction. Hanzo gritted his teeth, glaring down at the other man._

_“You know nothing,” he snapped._

_“No don't believe I do.” McCree stood feet away, stance defensive yet aiming for casual. “But I know enough to see that the way you’re treating a man trying to reconcile isn't right.” Hanzo scoffed at the ludicrosity of the gesture. The cowboy appeared on the verge of continuing in his criticism. The archer would not give him that chance._

_Hanzo moved, pushing past the taller man without touching. There was no telling when last that awful red cloth had been washed. The strong stench of cigar smoke and gunpowder caused his lips to curl in disgust. The reaction did not go unnoticed, McCree lashing out, a rough and calloused hand grabbing his retreating form. He snapped, a blur of movement, grabbing for the offending wrist, throwing his weight, expecting to hear the satisfaction of an expelled breath and surprised gasp from the cowman’s throat. McCree’s back never collided with the floor. Hanzo’s did. He blinked, shaking off the surprise of the counter attack, narrowing in on the smug expression creasing the tanned face above him._

_“Are you going to listen now?” McCree’s hand tightened where it gripped into the archer’s shirt, the fabric of tee straining to hold together. He answered the question by jabbing up with left hand, palm out, slamming the heel of his into the other man’s collarbone. The grip on the shirt loosened and Hanzo jerked his hips, bouncing up onto his heels. A coughing fit came from the other man as Hanzo stood his ground, shaking off the feeling of the meaty hands tossing him around and pushing down the smoldering frustration and embarrassment at being manhandled. “I’ll take that as a negative.” McCree wheezed out, pounding his chest to clear his throat and straightening up._

_“Leave me be,” Hanzo watched the movements of the man mindful of each tick._

_“That is not going to happen.” McCree’s stance had changed, evidence of a knowledge of hand to hand combat. That fact - while not altogether surprising - irked the archer. Behind that cocky swagger was an opponent that Hanzo had read about but not seen. “You’re hurting a dear friend of mine and I’m afraid I can’t let that slide anymore.”_  
_  
_ “Then you are fool,” he shifted, opening his stance, awaiting the next move.

_“So I’ve been told,” McCree grinned, rolling a shoulder and rubbing at the spot where Hanzo’s palm had jabbed into flesh._

_“You will not let me leave then.” He meant it was a statement, a growl under his words at being forced into this confrontation. He knew the emotions that the man across from him held towards his presence at Gibraltar. McCree had not been as subtle as he believed himself to be._

_“Nope. Someone needs to beat some sense into you.” McCree - ever the show man - cracked his knuckles, grinning pearly but slightly crooked whites._

_“And you are the one to do so?” Hanzo scoffed in response. He curled his hand, fingers twitching towards his chest, eyes beckoning the ridiculous cowboy wanna be to, as the American’s put it, ‘bring it’._

_McCree answered with a fist aimed for his left, high, intending for a jaw shot. He raised to block, catching the arm, angling it away, a swift elbow swinging around and catching the gunslinger across the jaw. He felt the gunslinger’s teeth snap together. As the man staggered back, he allowed the forward momentum to carry his arm across, spinning on a heel to bring the heel of his outside calf around, aiming to take the cock sure bastard’s legs out from under him. McCree stumbled back, the kick uprooting his footing._

_Hanzo darted away, coming in again as the other rolled with the hit. McCree righted himself and brought up his guard. Every overheard word, every harsh realization and suffocating weight of the past propelled fists and feet. Since arriving he was made aware of the other’s fierce agitation at his presence. Whether through words or actions, McCree leaving the room or watching his movements through veiled eyes - a cautious expression - the mistrust was a thorn dug deep into his side._

_They aimed for weak points and lowered defenses, devolving into fighting dirty when Hanzo's knee made contact with the inside of the gunslinger's thighs. McCree stumbled back, gasping, bent over before throwing himself forward, body tackling the archer and tossing them both across the unforgiving concrete. The thin fabric of Hanzo’s shirt was meager protection against the burns promised to splatter across his back. His knees came up, kicking at the heavy body of the other man, knocking the wind from his lungs and Hanzo scrambled out, back on his feet, prepared._

_“You fight like a goddamn hellcat,” McCree sneered, wiping away blood from his lips and teeth - the result of an uppercut._

_“You talk too much,” Hanzo snapped back, chest heaving, hair half heartedly still held up by the tentative grip of a small elastic band. He wiped stray strands out of his eyes, sticking to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and blood. “Sticking your nose where it does not belong. Typical damn American.” He spat, shifting his weight to give him a better center of gravity, running his tongue across the cut in the inside of his cheek._

_“Can't help it,” McCree glared him down. “I don't like ya being here. I sure a hell don't appreciate how you're treating the man trying to fix things between you.” The gunslinger’s fists came up, both men staring down the other, on edge waiting for the other to make the first move. “Guess I got tired of your smug face.” The fist came wide and Hanzo batted it away, retaliating with a low swung blow towards the other man's sternum. McCree dodged out of the way. They spread apart again, sizing the other’s beaten form up for weakness and a measure of their endurance._

_“Then I envy those that haven't met you,” he returned the verbal jab. The expression of momentary confusion before realization dawned and creased McCree's forehead produced the most ironic chuckle from his throat. McCree's face schooled itself into contained anger, the man coming in again, throwing a wild haymaker. He felt the air around his face move as the tanned fist missed by centimeters. He couldn’t answer the boot that kicked out, catching his outside shin. His knee slammed into the ground, the lack of his typical bracers not there to cushion the impact._

_McCree didn't jump on the obvious opening, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him to his feet. The motion rattled him, jerking his head and knocking his teeth. A grimace ground his jaws together with the copper taste of blood. They stared the other down, Hanzo's bruised digits wrapping around the offending hand hoisting him airborne. The toes of his shoes brushing the floor. He was suspended by the strength of the gunslinger alone._

_“We’re bloody and blue in the face. Can I have a civil conversation with you now?” McCree's breath was hot, unpleasant and caused him to shiver in revulsion. Too close. Far too close. He could feel the barest brush of those unkempt whiskers whispering across his skin. A beat and he didn’t answer, only tightening his grip around the hand holding him in the air. “Quiet now? Fine.” McCree spat, readjusting his hold on the shirt. The threads strained against Hanzo’s back, threatening to give out. “I don’t like you. I don’t want you here. You keep your nose so far up your own ass you can’t see the sun on the other side.”_

_Hanzo growled, his nails digging into the appendage suspending him, breaking skin. McCree didn’t flinch. The archer snapped out a knee, jamming it into the man’s gut. The response was a wheeze and cheeky grin made disturbing by the sight of crimson teeth. Hanzo jerked his head back, desperate for space, before bringing it forward, slamming his forehead against the cowman’s nose. The satisfying crunch made him smirk and the action had the intended effect. McCree released him with a yowl, holding his face with one hand, the other up in defense._

_“If my presence offends you then leave.” His hand snapped up, pointing at the massive metal door to the hanger bay. He stepped away, falling back, putting distance between them. His chest heaved, breathing shaky and telling of a few bruised ribs._

_“I'm not done talking,” the words slurred a little at the end, McCree talking behind a hand. Blood dribbled between his metal fingers, curving around the ridiculous skull design. “We can keep using each other as fucking punching bags or you can have the decency to admit you've been an ass. Hell that's putting it nicely.”_

_Hanzo didn't respond. Instead he watched McCree as he shook his prosthetic, droplets hitting the ground before grabbing his nose in both thumbs and resetting the cartilage._

_“Give Genji the time of day,” the gunslinger said, his voice nasally, undermining (to a degree) the seriousness of conversation. “Listen to the man. I'll stop watching you like a hawk. Doesn't mean I trust you none but I understand running from your past. It isn't easy. It sure as hell isn't a good time. But you got the look of a haunted man and it rubs me wrong because you got demons you haven't settled with. Can't trust a man who can't fight his own battles. You made it pretty fucking clear you aren't leaving so either man up or I'll keep smacking you around.” Straightening his posture, favoring his left side a little, McCree extended the metal hand with the grinning, gruesome skull._

_He stared at the gesture, calculating the words. The man was painfully transparent. Even if he did not want to admit it, he perhaps had misread the man’s words and intentions. Or over thought them. Defense and self preservation was a natural state of mind. But the man's - McCree's - monologue rang true enough. He wasn't going to have a change of heart over night but running was what he’d been doing going on half a century. He was here to reconcile with the one he lost, yet at every turn his insecurities undermined Genji's attempts._

_He didn't take the hand. McCree dropped it, swinging at his side, boots adjusting for another round._

_“I'll… consider your words,” there was more he wanted to add but the sentence was lost, buried under the turmoil a few confessions created. His arms crossed, knuckles brushing against a rip in the sleeve of his shirt he hadn’t noticed._

_“Good because I hate repeating myself.” McCree adjusted the askew fabric of his serape, boots hitting the concrete and turning on a heel. Hanzo watched him, the archer unmoving, pondering how a man went from furious to sympathetic to nonchalant and joking in a blink. “You've got one hell of a hard head, you know that?” McCree chuckled, limping out of the hangar bay, waving over his shoulder. The bloodied skull grinning back - the only witness._

\-----

The garage went quiet when he jammed the vehicle into park, the engine sputtering and giving one last angry croak before shutting off. Gathering up the hat, the holopad, and the pieces of the revolver, he shoved both coms into a back pocket and ripped open the boarded door. The frame shook, declaring the anxious energy running through him. The couch was empty.

Lena stood at the beaten desk in the office, glancing up from the set of tablets laid on the metal surface. One hand was hovering, finger retreating from the touch screen surface. She appeared drawn, extra lines across her face and her shoulders slumped forward in place of their perky cheer. “You're back.” She already knew.

“Has Winston contacted you?” The objects hit the desk. The metal of the broken gun clattered hollow in the tiny office. Two sets of eyes stared at the pieces - physical confirmation of his suspicions and the team’s fears.

“No. Not yet. Genji did. I don't think he has told the rest.” Lena jerked her gaze away, looking over the other objects. Thin fingers brushed the new hole in the brim of the hat - the golden ornament glistening innocuously. “Here is what he has been able to locate concerning Deadlock.” She turned the tablet, the foremost article headlining an unknown but potentially gang related explosion in the early morning hours. The weight of the photographs he’d taken burning in his pocket.

“Send this to Winston,” he slid the damaged holopad across the table. “I will inform the others.” Hanzo left the room for the lingering darkness that the garage presented. The audible gasp behind him caused a moment of hesitation. He berated his balking, reminding himself to breath, this was not the time or place for thoughtless action. Lucio was sitting on his cot, headphones on, foot bouncing to the mix blasting into his ears. Hana appeared still curled up amongst her blankets but the light from a phone illuminated the truth. Hanzo stood, patient, until both sets of eyes glanced curiously at his defensive posture - the silent shift in pressure from another body entering the room drawing their attention.

“What’s wron-”

“What did he do this time?” Hana butted in, ignoring the cutting look the musical medic shot her. She flipped over, legs swinging off the edge of the cot and dropping her phone.

“McCree has been taken.” He gauged their reactions. Hana's gaze shifted from annoyed to questioning. Lucio was on his feet, leaving the garage, darting into the office and shooting off rapid fire a series of questions at Lena. For once she was the slower of the two.

“Taken? The bounty hunters finally caught up with him?” She asked, arms crossed, her phone sitting with a near constant buzz in her lap. She ignored it, brows creased in concentration.

"No.” He responded. “Deadlock has him.”

Hana's expression darkened. He had expected rage not this concentrated, brooding calm. She grabbed her phone, turning the device off completely and shoved it into the front pocket of her hoodie.

“When?” She was standing now, barely reaching his collar but staring into his face, searching for the truth. Hanzo resisted the urge to draw back. Her eyes contained an emotion all too familiar - desperate hope smothered under an unyielding resolve for retribution. Deadlock took someone who didn't belong to them and though McCree often called her a gremlin in jest, the notorious gang tripped up in messing with cowboy.

“Late last night. At an old diner a few hours from here.” He explained, unsure of what details to give. The image on the holopad was horrible but the one sent directly to his communicator far worse. That was personal.

“So we're going after them then.” She was moving towards the office. He wanted to stop her, shield her from the damaged photograph of the gunslinger, yet she wasn't a child. She couldn't be treated as such. She was as much a fighter as any of them. Hanzo gripped his bicep, tightening the hold on his own arms to prevent incurring the young woman's ire.

“If he was taken just hours ago we can still track them down,” Lucio blurted out as the duo came into the office space. Lena had the holopad image playing in a loop by her right hand. He glanced at Hana but her expression remained schooled into unreadable. “We have four agents here already. They couldn’t have gone far.”

“Not yet.” Winston’s voice came over the open com line, slightly crackled and mechanical. “Who found the holopad?”

“I did. Along with the remains of McCree’s revolver. Tracer has sent the image from the holopad to Gibraltar?” Hanzo stepped in.

“She did. I wish you had not gone off on your own.” Winston’s attempts at reprimanding the archer landed on deaf ears. Hanzo straightened, glaring at the communicator. “Did you find anything else at the diner?” The communicator and its personal message weighed in Hanzo’s pocket.

“No.” Hana glanced over, raising a brow beneath at him. The hat sat on the table. Lena had moved it to the side, out of line of sight of the communicator. The gamer snatched the article, wringing it between her hands. No one stopped her.

“Very well. Agent Shimada you and Tracer are to return to the diner and find what you can. If there are local authorities there, do not interfere. Take what samples you can and send them here.”  There was a pause over the com, rapid typing coming through. “You are to return to Gibraltar in two days. The mission is officially concluded.”

“Understood,” Tracer responded, ending the transmission.

“That’s it then? We just see if we can find clues and leave him here?” Hana growled. Arms crossed, shoulders hunched forward, a defensive posture containing her dissatisfaction. They all echoed the sentiment. The young gamer was the one to voice those concerns.

“Hana,” Lucio started, attempting to sooth his comrade.

“No! Don’t ‘Hana’ me! We are not leaving him here!” Her hand jerked to the holopad. Though the device had sputtered dead, the image that it displayed blazed in their collective mental eye. McCree broken and bloody, bound and helpless at the hands of Deadlock. “He would not leave us behind.” Though her tone softened to morose, her fists clenched, banging against the table, shuffling the tablets and displacing the holopad. It clattered to the concrete floor, shattering on impact. “We aren’t leaving him.”

She argued for a longer stay, more time to search, anything. For an hour Hanzo stood silent, listening, allowing the three younger members to get the verbal bickering out of their systems. The situation was tense. The chirp from his pocket interrupted them. Three sets of eyes turned, staring at him, Hana almost blue in the face, eyes rimmed, holding back tears of frustration.

“Are you going to answer it?” She snapped, breaking, the hands holding the worn and familiar stetson twisting the material until it groaned under the strain. He did. The communicator flashing the notification of a new message from a familiar source.

 **A.07.18G98**  
I will be there soon  
Hope you saved some fun for me

“Was it Genji?” Lucio prompted when Hanzo didn't immediately relay the information. He nodded an affirmative, fingers twisting the communicator around.

“Good. We can form a plan until he gets here.” Lena scrolled through the tablet, pulled up a map of the area and threw it up into a three dimensional projection. “This is where you said the dinner was located correct?” Hanzo confirmed the answer and she moved on. “This is where we are…”

They agreed to go searching under the cover of darkness. Fewer prying eyes. Hanzo produced the photographs he had taken off the explosion scene. They lined up with the ones shown on the local news station reports and articles. The holopad had confirmed the suspicion that whoever had taken their cowboy did so on the pretense that McCree's comrades were dead.

By nightfall they changed, split into groups and dispersed to their assignments. The dinner was empty. Police tape sectioned off the building. Genji was already inside when they arrived and Lena darted around back, scanning the area. Reporting an all clear, Hanzo ducked under the tape, around the restaurant and met the duo inside. The place had been scrubbed clean. Blood and coolant both gone. Only the mental mapping he had done that morning remained. Hanzo went through the motions of what he believed to be the cowboy’s movements, vaulting the counter and dodging between the kitchen equipment until they reached the back alley. Outside was no different. The garbage containers were spotless, brand new almost. The dirt had been raked and blood either covered over or removed completely. Lena kicked at one of the metal containers, gritting her teeth. She darted away with a curse, circling the place a few more times to see if there was something that they’d missed.

Hanzo watched, scanning the ground, bracers toeing at the edges of containers or pushing fly away paper out of the way. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find. They had done a thorough job. Back in the restaurant Genji was sending back a mapping of the movements Hanzo had suggested. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, whirling the tip between two fingers. He tapped the sonic head against the knee of the bracer, the sound waves emitting in the confined space and listened. There was the ping of the metal garbage cans, the thermal image of a few rats hidden underneath one of the containers and a high tinny sound that did not belong. The arrow spent, he shoved it back into the quiver and grabbed a second, repeating the process. He listened to the out of place noise, following it carefully until his toe connected with something buried under the dirt. A pile of boxes thrown atop one another, stacked far too high in the corner of the alleyway, he realized it was feet away from where he’d located the pieces of the revolver that morning. There, sitting half concealed under the dirt, easy to miss as just another piece of trash, was the too familiar ornamental spur. He toed the piece free of the ground, using the flat head of an arrow to pick up the metal. A few droplets of blood covered the edges of the spur. Hanzo turned, balancing the piece on the head of an arrow, when Lena bolted back into the alley way.

“Hana and Lucio,” she gasped out. “They found something.” Her eyes darted to the doorway of the restaurant as Genji emerged. Satisfied that she had bother their attentions she continued, rubbing one hand over the opposite arm. “They found a body. It was burnt badly. The pictures they sent to Athena have already come back. Winston believes it might be one of Deadlocks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships will happen. Eventually. Just not right away. Will add more tags as things happen but, as it stands right now, I don't want to give away too much with the tags.
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!


	6. Great Clouds Bring Darkness From Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Pompeii" by Bastille.
> 
> Here is the first of the two re-writes. As a note to those that have already read this the flashback stayed mostly the same. There are two large sections added at the beginning and near the middle. This chapter does not end as it did previously and, again to previous readers, the original major ending has been removed from this story.

“He’s coming round.”   
  
“Hold him!

“-- the legs!”   
  
“-ck! My nose!” _  
_

Jesse woke with a whimper. Not a scream or a roar but the sound of a pup in pain. Hands grappled with his limbs. Something sharp scrapped against bone. Then he screamed. A gut wrenching wail that jerked his legs against the men. Vaguely his mind registered that he was overheating, sweat plastered the wild mane of hair to his neck and face. He heaved, back coming off whatever surface they held him again, when a broad hand cuffed him across the face. Ears ringing, he blinked the world into focus. Faces he both recognized and didn’t hovered in and out of vision.   
  
“Stop thrashing. If you want to save the arm then you’ll shut up.” Jesse blinked, he didn’t know that voice. Or the face that it belonged too. An old man, cantankerous wrinkles outlined brown eyes. Settled in a visage full of harsh lines and rough edges, one eye half closed but clouded. Blind. The old man arched a brow, one hand held aloft with what looked like an electric soldering iron. A spark from the prosthetic broke the trance.

“You done being a bitch kid?” Bridges leered into view. Jesse tensed.    


Instead of an answer the gunslinger glared. The hands holding his legs and other arm in place tightened their grip. His muscles bunched, ready to fight back, even as his head pounded. Then his stomach rolled and he held in the abrupt need to relieve an empty stomach. Bridges’ hand snapped out, grabbed Jesse’s chin, gripped the scraggly jaw open, and shoved a ball of disgusting cloth between his teeth. Bridges’ held his hand there until all Jesse could do was bite down on the gag.   
  
“You’re going to want that,” Bridges slapped Jesse’s cheek like a father would to encourage an errant child. The action drew another heave from the gunslinger against the men that clung to his appendages. “Get to it Vin, I want as much of him intact as possible.”   
  
“Well either get more men in here or knock him out. He fights worse than a bitch in heat,” the gruff back alley doctor groused.

The whirl of a tiny engine filled the room; a dingy place no doubt hidden away in the back of a house and used to do under the table procedures. No questions asked and only money exchanged. Jesse watched with flared nostrils, teeth grinding into the cloth jammed into his mouth, as the soldering device returned to working at the circuits of his prosthetic receiver. Even through the gag his scream was agony. His body thrashed on instinct, desperate to get away, no amount of training for torture to stop the primal desire to escape the inferno of nerves being melded together with an uncaring hand.

The black market surgeon tossed the soldering machine to the side and snarled, backhanding Jesse across the face again. “Stop your squirming!” Jesse saw stars, barely heard the shrill complaints of the man - Vin - as the soldering machine kicked back up. His booted heel slammed the table, broke free for half of a second, and caught someone in the gut. The give of soft flesh under the solid weight of his kick. The iron melded another nerve bundle together, tears from hellfire in his arm brought on the reactionary flood.

“Oh you mother fucker!” He couldn't see but Jesse heard the irate slam of metal against the wooden table. Close to his head. The heat from iron radiated near his temple. “Dammit. Grab that rag! No the one on the saw! Yes! How do you get anything done with these monkey fuckers?”

“Slim pickings these days. Last new recruit left with that parting gift,” Bridges appeared in his line of sight, the bastard’s smug grin made Jesse bristle.

“You picking up kids from the fancy part of town now? If he was aiming to kill you’d be better off without him,” Vin snapped in return.

“Kid didn't last long,” Bridges said, disappeared from view. A hand with crooked fingers reached across and snatched the requested rag. Jesse blinked, forced his eyes to focus. The haze of a concussion unmistakable. His stomach chose that moment to heave. A collective shout ricocheted in the room. The gag was ripped out. The scuffle of boots and shoes. Curses in three different languages. Rough hands shoved his head to the side, the meager contents of his stomach splashed across the floor. The taste lingered in the back of his throat, the coughing that followed ignited pain in badly patched bullet wounds when those same firm hands jerked him back under restraint.

“You and your monkeys are cleaning that up,” Vin said. Jesse focused on breathing, sucking in slow through his teeth to steady his equilibrium. The swish of liquid in a bottle. A grease stained rag settled over his mouth and nose. Jesse inhaled, tasted sickly sweet, and bucked, twisted his head despite the agony. “Hold him!”

Jesse snarled, bite his teeth down to seal his lips. A solid punch to the gut caused him to gasp. The rag pressed down harder. His vision swam. Black spots danced and the voices of two men conversing like this was a night at the bar followed him down. The wood of the hovel creaked and groaned against the rush of wind outside. The desperate cry of the elements shook the side, sent his conscious into a spiral of darkness.

_ \----- _

_ The sand storm was dying and his view of the abandoned bar began to clear.  Between the rickety floor boards, chipped paint, and peeling plaster the sense of hopeless abandon pervaded. His gloved hand grasped the pulse pistol, index finger pressed against the trigger guard. His other hand tightened around the steering wheel. The aged leather groaned in complaint under the pressure. _

_ Through the air and over the snarls of the sand storm the rapid ping of a rifle caused his nerves to fire and his body jerked in reaction. His foot slipped on the accelerator and the jeep revered forward, fighting against the emergency brake. The breath in his chest hitched. His vision scanned the doorway then glanced towards both ends of the building.  The gunfire stopped. Nothing. No Jacobs. No Harper. No Bridges. It was an eerie calm punctuated by his breath and the staccato beat of his heart. _

_ “Kid.” The radio on the dash cracked to life - Jacobs’ voice though intermittent with static. Jesse jumped, scrambling to press the call button. “Kid, damnit! Answer.”  _

_ “Here. Jeep’s started. What’s the-” _ __  
__  
_ “Shut it.” Bridges cut him off, barking over him. “Get the other car started. Jacobs is coming out with a body.” The radio fell silent. _ __  
_  
_ __ Jesse looked at the handheld on his dash. Simple cargo pick up. In and out. 

_ “McCree! Respond!” Bridges snapped. _

_ “Got it! Got it! Start up the second car.” He kicked the door to the jeep open, ignored the pang in his chest. Death wasn’t new. They’d shot before. They’d killed before. That a body was now involved in a routine meant plans changed.  _

_ The other vehicle was parked a few feet away. It took a second of jiggling but the rusted metal handle finally budged and the door swung open. Sand and grit coated the cracked seat in a fine layer. The keys waited in the ignition. Reaching up, he turned the key and received only the harsh whine of a dying engine in response. The bandana around his mouth muffled his curse as he smacked the dashboard in frustration. Another turn of the key only produced a grinding keen from the engine. The starter was bogged down by the sand. He hazarded a guess that it was age. The vehicle was going on seven decades old. The only thing still factory on the metal beast was the body and maybe the right rear seat. _

_ “Jeep’s dead. Don't got the tools to fix it.” Jesse returned to the running vehicle and called into the radio.  _

_ “Leave it then. Everything loaded?” Bridges responded. There was a shuffling and the distinct sound of Harper’s cursing before the call button clicked off. _

_ “Yes.” The radio crackled without a reply for a moment. Jesse looked at the handheld and moved his hand off the callback. He did not reply or move immediately.  _

_ “Bring the car around.” Bridges voice edged with panicked anger. Jesse didn't need to be asked twice. He scrambled into the driver's seat and pressed the accelerator. The wheels spun in a frantic bid for traction before the vehicle bolted forward. He skirted the corner to the rear of the building. Bridges didn't even wait for the car to stop before he tossed a burlap bundle into the back and climbed into the passenger seat. Harper and Jacobs scrambled into the back between the loaded cargo. Bridges dropped a piece of ripped cloth onto the dashboard. _

_ White logo with black and red outline. Some members of Deadlock called it a jet emblazoned with a sword. Others claimed it was an owl, a harbinger of bad endings. Jesse only knew the symbol was death to a Deadlock member and the old adage of disappearing forever. _

_ “He was lurking in the back. Shot Jacobs.” Bridges snapped. _

_ Jesse looked through the rear window. Sure enough Jacobs was holding a bicep with a hastily wrapped sackcloth seeped in blood. A broad hand smacked Jesse's head.  _

_ “Drive. The bastard called for backup,” Bridges snarled. _

_ \----- _

His body collided with the seat. The impact returned him to consciousness. A groan and muttered curse - one sound wasn’t his own. A slim, calloused hand smothered his mouth, cut off the pained grunts. The rest of his body came awake, screamed in protest to being aware. Jesse turned his head. It was jerked back, pressed down into the floorboard of the vehicle. Grit ground into the open cuts across his forehead. The nausea and sickness from a concussion returned first. The stomach heaving contortion of his body as the sudden stop of the vehicle made the feeling worse.   
  
Next came the agony of his injuries. Bullet wounds hastily patched up. His side was on fire. Bandages rubbed against the entry point. He couldn’t remember if there ever was an exit. The thought of the bullet still in his body inspired anger. The risk of infection too real. Only one arm was restrained, zip tied to the brace at the bottom of the passenger seat - the flesh one. His prosthetic felt numb, nonexistent. Jesse forced the receptors to fire, fought through the pain of a rush patch to the receiver, and found minor relief in the way metal fingers brushed against the bare skin of his other bicep. A shoddy job done by a shoddy backstreet doctor.   
  
“He’s awake,” a raspy voice, forced into a hushed whisper. Jesse rolled his eyes up, glared over the grimy hand. The man was ragged, twitchy, and decidedly thin.   
  
“Keep him quiet. They’re around the corner,” Jesse’s eyes narrowed - Bridges’ voice he would recognize anywhere. A calloused hand tapped against his scruffy cheek. A mockery of a kind and comforting touch. Jesse jerked his head, regretted the action, eyes squinted shut to keep in his groans. “That’s a good kid.”   
  
“Got it boss,” the same nails on a chalkboard voice. Skinny fingers grabbed Jesse’s shoulders, pushed him onto his back, a light beamed down into one eye. Scanned for a minute then skipped to the other eye. The light clicked off. Jesse kicked or tried to. His legs were bound. Trussed up like a piglet. He turned his head to glare at the impromptu doctor. “He’s got a nasty head wound. That crackpot doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking abo-”   
  
Jesse saw the swing coming. He knew how Bridges’ worked. He was intricately familiar in the ways of the man. The pistol whipped around, barrel smacked into the ratty body hovering over Jesse, but no shot fired. He felt the man tense through the hands still on his shoulders. The man yelped. The hard slap of metal against flesh.   
  
“Say it again,” Bridges growled.   
  
“I’m good boss. I get the hint,” the ragged man muttered.   
  
“Keep the kid quiet. Don’t care if he has a concussion. Jesse’s tough. He’ll be fine in a day or two,” Bridges sneered. The crackle of a radio came from the front of the vehicle.   


“Harper here. Black and white headed your way boss. Higgins is leading them away,” static followed the announcement.

Jesse glanced up, was met with the sight of an unshaven scrawny man, the underside of his chin really. The twitches in the body told him the nervous way those eyes scanned whatever scene was outside the windows. Jesse looked through what glass he could, ignored the steady increase in pressure to his mouth. The man was leaning forward and balanced on the palm covering Jesse’s lips. Out the window by his feet, through the dark tinted glass, he could make out the traditional adobe texture of New Mexico. Or somewhere close. That gave him a general location.

The pressure against his mouth became severe. He bucked against the hand. Teeth managed to pinch the bare skin. The scraggly grunt yelped and yanked his hand back amid a mouthful of curses. Jesse smirked. The deep rolling laughter warned him before Bridges’ smug face looked down.

“You done throwing a fit kid?” Bridges’ body leaned at an awkward angle to stare.

“Don't think I am actually,” Jesse answered. He added a light tone to his voice. The sound of a man searching for trouble by being obtuse.

“And how could I get you to mind? Beating obviously ain't working,” Bridges rested his chin on his free hand, palm up, fingers tapped across a stubble covered jawline. The pistol was held snug in the massive prosthetic.

“Fancy it would be possible for me to talk ya into letting me go on my way?” Jesse shifted, eased the strain of his hand cuffed arm. The rusted steel of the restraint dug into his skin. Rubbed the tanned flesh raw.

“Don't think I can do that. Lost a few good men getting your ass back,” Bridges swiveled back to face through the front windshield. The wrinkled, weatherbeaten profile presented spoke to the undertone of a cheery conversation thinly disguising the tension. “Besides I’d be dishonoring the memory of those fellas you so readily shot. Jacobs raised ya like the rest of us and you paid him back with a bullet in the gut.”

“Send Lydia my condolences,” Jesse winced, teeth gritted as his prosthetic sparked and sent a lance of pain through the receiver.

“She was Harper's bitch,” Bridges snorted in amusement. “Going to need you to keep that tongue in check now Kid.” Jesse saw the nod, a shark tilt of the head. The scraggly man leaned forward, a sack Jesse hadn’t seen before in his hands, and tossed it over the cowboy’s head.   
  
“Hey this isn’t any way to-” A solid punch to the chest with the butt of a pistol stunned him. Jesse choked, spit phlegm into the rough material of the sack. Blinded, Jesse couldn’t see the hand or the solid object - it felt like a stick or ball - was shoved into his mouth. The canvas bag threads tickled the inside of his throat and he coughed against the intrusion. He bucked, tried to rip his mouth free, but another hand clasped around his neck. That stopped the resistance. Without sight, fighting was a foolish endeavor. His ears strained, heard the sound of shuffling feet. The noise was almost tentative.   
  
“You live around here sir?” The voice sounded young. A kid or teenager perhaps. Jesse picked out another voice or two behind it. One sounded feminine with a higher pitched complaint about being lost.   
  
“I do. What can I help ya with?” Bridges played the smarmy charade of the kind stranger well. Jesse could hear the way the old brute leaned out of the window of the vehicle, a wicked friendly grin on that scarred face.   
  
“We’re new around here and we thought that the Opera House was around here-” The sound of something hitting the young man in the chest.   
  
“What Jeremy means to say is we’re lost. Do you happen to know where to find the Opera House?” The feminine voice cut. Jesse wanted to laugh at the situation. The kids didn’t know who they were dealing with. That was the humorous part. He wiggled his boots as Bridges gave directions. Wrong directions. The man was truly sinister sometimes. Jesse managed to bunch his legs up. The underling keeping his quiet didn’t move. Or didn’t notice. His side screamed at the action.   
  
With a vicious kick Jesse’s boots collided with the sideboard of the door. The impact was hard enough to rattle the break the conversation. He smirked around the canvas bag, ready to kick again then a hand grabbed the rope binding his legs and hitched them up. The scraggly man dug the object shoved in Jesse’s mouth down harder. A warning.   
  
“What’s that?” The feminine voice again. Jesse could hear her neck craning, too curious for her own good. The driver’s chair groaned as Bridges no doubt shifted to block her view.   
  
“Nothing much. We were out hunting and I think my friend might’ve just dropped one of the guns,” Bridges lie was terrible but out of towners and city kids from the sound it wouldn’t know. There wasn’t any reason to believe otherwise. Jesse tried to jerk his legs free. He ignored the way the rope hitched up his jeans, the cruel material of the rope digging into the newly exposed flesh. “Now as I was saying, if you take this road…”   
  
Jesse stopped listening. Instead focused on blinking, trying to think of a way out. His salvation might be some city kids but it was a start. The grunt adjusted his grip to the rope, tugged the binding as a warning, and Jesse grunted when the action also jostled the pinned prosthetic. A spark shot through his arm.   
  
“Thank you sir!” The feminine voice chirped.   
  
“Yeah thanks. Have a nice day I guess,” the young man sounded absolutely defeated.   
  
Jesse moaned, tried to scream around the makeshift gag. What came out was a whine and quickly cut off as a knee dug into his gut. He gasped for breath. The bag was ripped from his head. His blinking eyes were greeted with the down turned annoyance of Bridges. Jesse groaned, rotated his jaw, tried to work out the kinks.   
  
“I forgot how troublesome you are,” Bridges continued to glare.   
  
“I’m flattered,” Jesse snorted back.   
  
“Awfully desperate there Jes. Trying to get kids to rescue you?” Bridges emphasized the point, the pistol tapped against the ripped divider between driver and passenger seats. Jesse’s eyes widened, stared from gun to the Deadlock leader as the implication settled against his chest heavier than any ten ton weight.   
  
“It’s broad daylight. You aren’t that stupid,” Jesse tried to call the bluff.   
  
“Actually…” The first thing the thin man said. Bridges cut his glare across to quiet him. “Sorry boss.”   
  
“No, I’m not, but the local police are currently preoccupied with leaving the city and what’s another missing tourist when the city is more worried about drug use,” Bridges balanced the pistol in his palm, toyed with the trigger guard, barrel pointed away. “What’re three more teenager disappearances? They got lost in the shuffle? Fell in with the wrong lot? People disappear all the time!” Bridges finished with a slight flourish and devious chuckle. “You should be familiar with vanishing after all.”

Jesse chose silence as an answer. Three. There had been three; young adults that were almost three corpses tucked away in an alley to be discovered when the next drifter came along.   
  
“Wise choice,” Bridges turned back, stared out the front shield again. In the quiet Jesse settled, focused on ignoring the way his wounds were burning as their mistreatment. The scraggly man moved back to the rear seat, lithe legs now straddled Jesse’s head. The view wasn’t pleasant.   
  
The radio crackled again.   
  
“Report,” Bridges snapped into the two way.   
  
“They’re following Torres and Roberts now. You’re good to move,” Harper’s voice came through that screech of static, the words slightly warbled and cut off when Bridges held down the call button.   
  
“Meet back in an hour. Stagger your arrival. Tell Torres return in the morning,” Bridges said, the engine to the vehicle turned out. The floor vibrated with the cough of an engine long past its prime. One of the fan belts sounded off.   
  
“Got it boss. Give Jesse my best,” Harper said through the radio.   
  
“Hear that McCree?” Bridges’ smirk was evident even as he shifted the vehicle into gear, moved them out of the alleyway. Jesse groaned, head fell to the side, stared at the underside of the passenger seat. A used bubble gum wrapper, three batteries, and a penny. Along with an assortment of hair and other debris. The rumble of the car as it drove lulled him down yet Jesse knew the clench in his gut, the roll over the back of his throat meant trouble. Stay awake. He lost the battle a handful of minutes later. Falling under without force for once.

\----

_ He winced but focused forward, threw the vehicle into drive and slammed down on the accelerator.  _

_ “How long until they show up?” Jesse asked. He quelled the frantic beat of his heart by shoving the pedal into the floorboard. The storm was a memory but the wind remained. Now it pushed and shoved, batting against the sides of the car. The frustrated cries of the two men in the back drowned out by the blood that pounded in his ears. The pulse pistol dug into the small of his back. _

_ “Couple minutes. An hour at most.,” Bridges leaned across the middle console and yanked the weapon out of Jesse's waistband. “Idiot. You trying to shoot yourself a new asshole?” The pistol waved in his peripheral vision before Bridges set it on the divider, safety on. _

_ “Fucker’s moving.” Harper barked, interrupting the smart retort that rested on Jesse's lips. One of Jacobs’ broad hands rested on the young gun’s shoulder and squeezed. Jesse quieted, faced forward and focused on the their escape route. Harper pulled back the burlap to reveal the black and blue face of the grunt. The man's good eye cracked open. The other was swollen shut. _

_ “Knock him out again.” Bridges said. The grizzled man glanced out the window at the fast fading drop point. The bar was a muted combination of colors and shapes obscured by the desert’s wind. Harper's fist cracked down in the rear view. The vehicle's left side jerked, the wheels airborne for a second as a warning shot exploded in the parched earth. Jesse fought to correct the jeep, twisting the wheel to regain his equilibrium. _

_ “How did they get here so fast?” Bridges smashed the butt of his rifle through the window and leaned out. _

_ “Where did the shot come from?” Harper shoved the body further down and pressed into the seat, rifle held across his chest. _

_ “I don't see anything out this way.” Jacobs grunted. His one good hand held tight to the bullet wound across his bicep. The injured hand gripped a pistol between white knuckled digits.  _

_ Through the rear view Jesse only saw sand and the dry brown of the arid land. Bridges still hung out the window, pulse rifle held up and sighted along the side of the jeep. _

_ Another explosion to the left. The vehicle was splattered with dirt and debris. Jesse turned hard right. The string of curses erupted from the back seat as both Jacobs and Harper were thrown against the side. The complaints were drowned out by the roar of a transport’s engines. Through the wind and grit the hazy outline hovered into view. The glint of sun off the barrel of a side mounted armament. The make and model were unidentifiable but the distinct impact and percussion against the side of the vehicle indicated grenades. _

_ The high pitched whine and ping of a pulse rifle caused Jesse to wince. One hand scrambled to pull his hat down; to shield his ears from the close proximity of Bridges’ retaliating fire. The cab of the vehicle was too small, too confined. It contained and rebounded the shots ten times over. _

_ “Kid get us out of here.” Jacobs snapped. Fresh blood spurted from the bullet wound on the man's arm. The stain on his sleeve spread and deepened. The pistol fell to the floorboards. _

_ The transport loomed behind them, the broad nose of the craft and it's imposing black cone front filled the rearview mirror. Jesse relied on the side mirror. They could never outrun the craft. The jeep was overburdened and his boot held the accelerator hostage to the floor. The engine strained under the pressure. _

_ “Let me think,”  Jesse's hands tightened. His eyes scanned the horizon. Desert. Flatland dotted with cacti and sparse flora. The transport had their number. The dust storm didn't seem to slow the hovering craft. Using the weather was out of the question. Jesse said a silent prayer as his mind sorted through the scenarios. Bridges’ rifle fired another set of rapid shots. The wheel slipped under his grip and the jeep veered right before Jesse could correct it. _

_ “They're bearing down.” Bridges dove back into the front seat when the third shot hit. The rear of the jeep was bounced in the air. The wheels slammed back into the ground and one rear door snapped open; a crate flew out, cracked and spun and the cargo scattered behind them. “Lose them kid.” Bridges rested the pistol on the middle console, barrel pointed at Jesse's gut. Gloved hands wrung the steering wheel. Jesse didn't look. The sight of Bridges’ hand moving away from the pistol gave him every clue. _

_ “Let me think!” He repeated. He felt the sweat trail down his neck, dip between his shoulders and trace the tension in the muscles. The bandana hid his gritted teeth and the pulse thumping against his throat. Harper shouted but it was lost by the sharp, instant pain in his side. _

_ “Motivation.” Bridges eyes glinted with the promise of punishment for noncompliance. _

_ “Thanks,” Jesse forced out a grin. _

_ A spray of bullets passed over the jeep’s front and he slammed the brakes, turning the wheel hard left. The open rear door slammed shut. He corrected the steering, spun the tires out as his boot pressed the accelerator again.  _

_ “Got an escape plan McCree?” Harper shouted. _

_ “Yes!” He responded. The trickle of blood down his front was distracting. The adrenaline of the chase the only barrier between his clear headed thoughts and being consumed by the pain of a bullet wound on his side.  _

_ “Get to it then kid.” Harper popped open the window, firing pot shots at the transport. Dust from the engines of the craft and their own trail clouded the immediate area. _

_ Jesse memorized the landscape. Flat land but cliffs promised protection. Cliffs he could barely see. Losing their pursuit in a dust storm wouldn't work. The jeep wasn't armor plated. The vehicle was in one piece because their pursuers seemed intent on warning shots instead of actual damage. _

_ “Toss the body out the back,” Jesse gritted out. For a second the quiet was deafening. His back stiffened. His eyes darted to the pistol on Bridges’ lap; the gun having slipped down off the central console. _

_ “Kid you've said some dumb shit but that takes it. We have a hostage, a way to get information and your smart ass wants to toss it out back,” Bridges sneered. The barrel of the pistol pressed against the wound and Jesse gasped, stars dancing across his vision. He panted, gulping down breaths to focus. “Do you have a better answer now?”  _

_ The barrel pushed in further. Jesse shouted. His body jerked away. _

“Jesse!”

He sputtered. Water drenched his face and threatened to drown his vision. Blinking away the intrusion he didn't see the fist until it connected with his cheek. His head snapped to the side. His teeth clattered together. The pain was simply the latest in a long line of punishment. After the first week every hit or kick or low blow melted together into a continuous rolling line of new scars and fresh agony.

“He's awake.”

He couldn't place the voice, so they must have brought in a new recruit. This was their initiation; beat the prodigal son until he screamed. Jesse looked through swollen eyes. Chilly water dripped from the tangled nest of hair on his head and obscured already blurred vision.

“Yeah. I'm awake. About that cigar y'all promised me?” His voice was strained and scratchy but the tune of a cocky attitude remained. Another hit. His body followed twisting in a near full circle. His wrists went numb long ago bound to the pegs of an ancient barstool. The seat was his cross and Jesse wasn't allowed to unload it. His legs swung free, dangling off the edge of the stool but he’d learned kicking only resulted in broken bones. The appendages hung limp, moving only with inertia.

“Boss said you could have dinner. Same deal. We untie you. You eat-”

“I don't run. I piss. I sleep. You beat me again in an hour. I think I got the routine down now hoss,” Jesse spat, prepared for the blow his interruption would bring. It didn't come. The ropes fell away and he crumpled under his own weight. Legs too shaky to support him dragged behind as rough grunts and calloused hands grappled with his chest to hoist him over a broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Jesse choked out a laugh. A sack of potatoes was given better treatment than this.

Even with his hands free the muscles held no will to move. It would do naught but earn him a visit from the water board or worse. He shivered at the idea of worse. Broken bones, cracked ribs, bruises until he looked like the spitting impression of a rotten potato. The chortle that croaked from his throat was quickly silenced. A shoulder to the gut had that effect. Jesse coughed, hacked up phlegm and spat out the green viscous mucus. The glob collided with the peeling wallpaper and molded siding.

“Ten points.” He smirked at the disgusted grimace the no name grunt flashed his way.

“Ten hits.” The grunt commented.

“That ain’t exactly a prize I want,” Jesse’s bloodied teeth snapped against his bottom lip. His rat’s nest of a head banged against the broad back that carried him. The bastard laughed at the solid sound of Jesse’s pain. “Gentle. Ain’t you ever carried a lady before?”

“Nah! Higgins don’t much know how to handle ladies.” The no name responded. The man in question grunted, jostled the cowboy and pushed open a rotten wood door.

“Home sweet home,” Jesse stumbled when his feet hit the ground. Neither of his bodyguards moved to assist. The back of his knees hit the bedframe and he righted himself with both hands gripping tight to the sole bedpost. Even that was a mere broken piece with sharp splinters protruding at throat level. The lesser damaged of his eyes focused on the brutes standing in the door.

“Boss’ll be by with your meal. Wants to have a word with ya or something,” the grunt snorted, one hand bracing a rifle against his shoulder and the other hanging loose at his side. The big guy, Higgins, stood impassive. “Also supposed to deliver this.”

Jesse quirked a brow at the display of obvious sinister enjoyment. Higgins took one step, clenched fist slammed against the gunslinger’s chest and knocked the breath from his lungs. He fell back, head cracked into the immovable wall the bed rested against as stars danced across his blurred vision. Definitely a concussion. Or the beginning of one. Again.

“Message received.” He wheezed, one hand holding the spot blossoming with new pain. Jesse rolled to his side, coughed up more phlegm and settled with his head wedged between the stained blankets and wall. The thud of boots against the concrete, muttered obscenities then the door closed with a shuttered bang. It rattled the entire room. He groaned, sinking further into the bed as the deadbolts snapped into place. He drifted in and out of sleep, revisiting memories and chasing away the throbs of fire from his injuries. There would be a bionic emitter tossed into the room at some point. Always was. The device would be half used, rusted or with just enough juice to keep him sane but weak. Jesse rolled to his other side, teeth gritted against way movement jarred his ribs.

The room swam. His eyes closed, fought back the nausea and curled up. What clothes Deadlock provided him consisted of ragged jeans and torn flannel. They let him keep the boots. A man who said he was a mechanic tinkered on the prosthetic but, in its current state, the appendage could wiggle the index and pinky finger. That was it. The machinery was useless. He peered at the prosthetic, forced his nerves to work, tried to move the middle finger or the thumb or anything. What resulted was only sharp lances that shot through his flesh. The receiver sparked in protest. Too damaged. The man calling himself a mechanic would come back next week - Tuesday, Harper had said. That was three, maybe four days ago. So it was Friday, perhaps Saturday.

Jesse dropped the appendage to the comforter, sighed, allowed the black on the edges of his vision to encompass his senses. The space was sparse in furnishings. A bed with a rotten frame, stained sheets, and a threadbare blanket stood pressed against the far wall and right corner. Directly to the side of the door a table sat. Its top was bare and the initial stain stubbornly remained. That was it. No nightstand. No lamp. The only light was from the clouded window set in the middle of wall opposite the door. Rolled back wallpaper lined the walls and where it peel back revealed an ancient, ground down stucco finish. They had taken away the single pillow after his first week. The mattress had smelled like mold when he’d first arrived. He was nose-blind to the stench now. Jesse was certain his body smelt no better. Getting a shower was a pipe dream. 

Minutes or hours, unsure of the time, the door to the room creaked open. A tray slid across the floor, bumped into the table’s leg and sloshed the soup. He glanced up in time to see the door close and lock. Soup and bread and a glass of water. The usual. Cheap fare and easy to make and store. Jesse wanted to ignore the offering, content to let his abused body rest, but the smell of food - even hastily prepared, probably cold - drew him from the bed. No one was around so he slumped off the bed onto the floor, crawled to the tray and slurped from the bowl. Once it was empty he licked it clean. The hard toast hurt his teeth but his stomach presented the strongest argument against that pain. He drank the water last, staved off finishing the glass completely and pushed it under the bed. A pathetic hiding place but he would need the rest later. Hunger was one thing. Dehydration was another and he resisted the urge to just quench the burn in his throat.

He kicked the tray away and the bowl tilted over onto its side. With an effort he dragged his body to the bed, laid down, back to the door on his side and cradled the hastily patched prosthetic against his chest. The light through the window shifted from evening to night while he ate. Now the pane hosted the barest of rays of light. The weight of his predicament crawled across his skin - a faithful companion he longed to chase away. Sleep was fitful. Bridges never showed up but the thought of being ambushed in his sleep, caught unaware kept Jesse teetered on the edge of consciousness. Curtained behind these present fears an infinite loop of a grainy explosion played. He laid on the bed, caught between two worlds, emotions in tatters and sleep nothing more than a dream. Dark rings took up permanent residence under his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the lovely MarieJacquelyn for taking time to go through this chapter and show me the error of my ways.
> 
> Whiskey Lullaby now has Fanart!  
> \--> That one scene where Hanzo and McCree get into it.  
> ["Can't trust a man who won't fight his own battles."](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com/post/154921079736/for-my-wonderful-friend-and-beta-captainxcorgi%20)  
> \--> That one scene where Hana and McCree are in charge of dinner and McCree ends up doing all the heavy lifting.  
> ["This is dinner?"](http://lucydoesart.tumblr.com/post/154345712337/commission-for-captainxcorgi-they-write-fanfic)
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!  
> Kudos are appreciated! Comments are adored and always replied to!


	7. Tied To a Horse That Will Never Tire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Desert Rose" by Sting.
> 
> Here is the second of the two re-writes. The majority of this is new save for one flashback sequence. Other than that the rest of these chapters will take place in the new timeline. Hope you enjoy. ^-^ Thank you for being patient with this process!

“Reports indicate an explosion occurred sometime during the early morning. The abandoned Brothers automotive garage appears to have been the target. Warehouses on either side of the garage suffered structural and exterior wall damage. At present there appears to have been one casualty but investigators have yet to identify the body. Currently police and investigators-” Lena cut the news anchor off, silencing the ancient television set, and dropped the remote onto the desk. Slender shoulders hunched forward as the speedster scanned the motley crew.

Hanzo braced against the wall of the tiny office. Hana and Lucio took up the couch -- the former with a scowl creasing her forehead while the latter's left knee bounced out an inconsistent rhythm. Lucio didn't try to stop the tick. Genji was silent, masked face concealed any emotion and his lithe body tucked up into the shade behind Lena’s right shoulder.

The broken affects of the gunslinger lay out on the desk. Peacekeeper’s cylinder lay dented in the dim light of the overhead lamp. The dying bulb flickered.

In the quiet Hanzo shifted, gaze cast between the gathering before dialing in on the communicator laying still between Lena’s hands. They waited for the call from Gibraltar. The fidgeting and bottled energy in the room threatened to push out the sides of the office. Given the right push the glass would shatter. It was a matter of when not if and Hanzo caught the subtle shift as Genji slid out of the room, a muted beep tone trailed after the green lights. An embedded communication system. Lena’s head snapped up, watched the departure, one hand curled into a half fist.

“He's late.” Hana said. Her legs curled up pressed against her chest.

“Possibly a disruption in the line. Reception isn't the greatest out here,” Lena relaxed her hand, forced an easy smile across her lips. Hana looked away. Lena’s facade faltered, glanced from Lucio to Hanzo for help and found none. She let the expression disappear, her knees giving out to fall into a crouch -- her body from the shoulders down now obscured by the metallic desk.

As if on cue the communicator pinged. Incoming call. Lena pressed receive perhaps too hastily. “Hiya Winston.”

“Is everyone accounted for?” The scientist's voice cracked through the speaker.

“All present yes.” Lena replied, the enthusiasm gone from her tone.

Hanzo's hands curled against his skin where his arms rested crossed across his chest. “Formalities are not the reason for this meeting. What news do you have?”

“Yes well…” From the speaker came the shuffle of papers, Winston cleared his throat. “Local authorities have taken the body for examination. Until the official report is posted I'll be unable to say for certain if the remains are Deadlock related.”

Hanzo caught the briefest of sighs expand Hana's back. Lucio's knee continued to bounce. The constant tap tap echoed in the twitch Hanzo felt tugging at his brow. Too much energy in too confined a space. The dingy office was stifling under the pressure of their combined anxiety. Hanzo felt it crawling across his skin, raising goosebumps, and tearing his nerves into frayed ends. His nails cut crescent moons into the flesh of his bicep.

“Then why did you assume the body was related to Deadlock?” Hanzo cut in.

Another shuffle of papers, a chair creaking as too much weight pressed against its springs, and no immediate response.

“What have you uncovered?” He redirected the inquiry searching for a more pointed explanation. His flesh received a reprieve, fist slammed into the wall beside him. Lena jumped, nearly knocked the communicator off the desk, and scrambled to right the device. Hanzo's voice rose, the tone of a groomed leader.

“Brother,” Genji’s quiet word announced his return and his silent hand stopped short of touching his brother’s shoulder. Hanzo beat down the urge to stiffen, the need to correct the reprimand. Instead pressed back against the wall, arms once more crossed. The scientist might be the self appointed and agreed upon leader for this motley crew but sometimes that leadership left a desire for change. A lifetime of guidance to become the epitome of a confident man, duty bound to lead, wasn’t so simply ignored. The mistakes the scientist made, the hesitation in decisions, the lack of certainty behind the instructions Winston gave browbeat decades of ingrained thought. Hanzo curbed his wandering mind. Shoved those ideas back down in the dark box he kept bleak memories and self-pity.

Clearing his throat, the archer repeated his question with all the vehement demand from before drained out.

“Agent McCree,” beneath the subtle crackle of long distance a hefty breath of weighted resignation came through. “He came to me. He had received a message from an unknown source. The article in the message concerned the Deadlock Rebels. McCree was worried it might mean that Deadlock has regrouped and perhaps resumed their old activities.”

“Are they?” Hana piped in. “Are they back?”

There was a moment of silence.  
  
“Where did the message come from?” Hanzo prompted. The question the gamer asked unsettled the group -- most so their scientist commander -- to the point of quiet. They wanted the answer. They didn't want to hear it.

“Athena back-tracked the IP to a data hub outside of Santa Fe. About twenty miles from your current location. Past that I do not have a location. The second message-”

“There was more than one message?” Lucio interrupted, his leg finally stilling, gloved hand clenched above his knee.

“Yes. McCree received two that I am aware of.” Winston’s vice cracked halfway through.

“What did the other one say?” Lucio asked. Hana had loosened her hold on her knees, legs now hanging over the edge of the couch, and her body shifted closer to the DJ’s. An earnestness for answers across her brow.

Hanzo glanced away. Winston was keeping information from the team. The third message burned in the back of his mind, the image he received etched into his memory. McCree held like nothing more than a common barn animal, bound and beaten, ready for the slaughter yet defiant light blazing in brown eyes.

“-about a Deadlock bust from twenty two years ago.”

Hanzo brought himself back to the present. The image banished to the darkest corner for the time being.

“The article itself isn't remarkable. Overwatch dealt with Deadlock on a regular basis. What is remarkable is that the article is marked for the date McCree received the communication. I am not sure why the date would need to be changed. McCree was not very forth coming with a reason.” The last part was terse and hammered out, the voice of a leader annoyed at a subordinate keeping secrets. Hanzo heard himself and tensed, pushed off the wall, and only a hand from Genji on his shoulder kept him there. Hana and Lucio looked curiously at the archer. Lena kept her attention on the tablet on the desk, the article Winston mentioned displayed across the screen.

“I remember hearing about this mission.” Lena said, index finger scrolling down the words. She read as quick as she moved.

“This was before your time Lena,” Winston responded.

“Yes, Love, but spending days stuck in a hospital bed waiting for my Chrono Accelerator to calibrate left me with a lot of free time.”

“Lena!” Winston barked down the open line. The image of the gorilla rubbing a hand across his face came to mind.

“Anyway the report mentioned that the mission was a bust. Something about being outsmarted by a kid.” Lena continued unperturbed.

“You had access to restricted files?” Winston chided.

“Jack left his tablet on the table. He got called away by his slag of a secretary and rushed out. My hand may have slipped.” Lena's laughter was high and forced, a means to easing the growing tension in the cramped office.

“Lena…” Winston groan. It was easy to visual a second hand rubbing at his eyes.

“Point is that Jesse didn't want to tell ya about the date because the article directly involved him.” She glanced at the communicator as if at any given moment Winston would reach through and reprimand her.

“How?” Hana jumped up. The smallest inclination of any lead to where their comrade was taken pushed the gamer from on edge to chomping at the bit. She bumped into the desk, leaned over it, as if all the answers suddenly appeared.

Lena hesitated, aware she spoke too much. In the silence Winston creaked his chair. Lucio's leg started bouncing in earnest but he dared not speak.

“Jack-”

“Lena. Stop.” Winston interrupted then cleared his throat; the sound of a person trying to act the facade of a person in charge and expected to lead. “Commander Morrison sent a tactical team out to the Chihuahuan Desert to intercept a reported Deadlock Rebels’ weapons drop. Leading that team was Gabriel Reyes. The mission did not go as planned. One operative was shot. The scout sent ahead of the team was captured by Deadlock.” Winston paused, took a breath, then continued. “An intercept mission turned into a rescue. Commander Morrison ordered the team to abandon the mission and return when the he received an update that the operative that was shot had passed.

Reyes didn't listen. He pursued the escaping Deadlock Rebels through the desert. He claimed that the mission could be salvaged. In the end the weapons were not recovered. The operative disappeared with Deadlock. The mission was deemed a failure.”

What we didn't know at the time was that Reyes had an ulterior motive in going against orders. He wanted to capture the kid Deadlock had recruited. There had been reported rumors around base of this tactical genius running Deadlock’s operations that allowed the Rebels to avoid capture. Reyes was relentless in pursuing those leads. The kid they wanted was Jesse McCree.”

Hanzo wasn't surprised. The ending was clear before Winston started. McCree’s file mentioned the man’s strategic mind and his departure from the Deadlock Rebels. It did not talk about the circumstances of the move. Hanzo creased his brow, wondered on the reason as to why the gunslinger would keep such information close to his chest. The obvious reasons did not fit into the mold that McCree presented. That sincere expression and charmed smirk was a carefully laid facade. Hanzo release the white knuckle hold on his arm. He hadn’t noticed the pressure.

“The date was changed but the information wasn’t.” Lena said.

“Correct.” Winston responded.

“They sent this directly to McCree’s personal communicator?” Hanzo questioned, mind working and stance loose.

“That is what Agent McCree lead me to believe. When I examined his communicator it appeared that the messages were sent to only him.” Winston said.

“A warning perhaps?” Genji’s voice came from the corner of the room.

“No.” Hanzo looked from the cyborg to the communicator. “A reminder. Deadlock’s way of showing McCree he still belonged to them.” A sentiment he knew. The idea of calling an empire a family was a misnomer. If Deadlock operated as the Shimada did then family was the pleasant way of saying prison. Once in there was little that would allow someone to leave. Genji moved against the wall, closer but not touching, the silent acknowledgement of a support pillar.

“A valid point.” Winston sounded thoughtful. “Agent Shimada or Shimada-san?”

“Shimada is fine.” Hanzo gave the communicator a curious glance. The scientist was only now asking about formalities.

“Very well. You had a chance to examine the diner before local authorities cleaned up correct?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Could you recount what you found please? I would like to have a another account for Athena to fact check against.” The distinct garble of someone clearing their throat to make a point. “ Tracer and Genji have submitted their reports.”

The formality made sense now. Like an errant child being reprimanded through the usage of their given name, Winston’s question was a means to determine the manner of how to address an errant agent. “There was a fight. McCree was shot, once, in the arm. Perhaps more but that I can say for certain. There was a mixture of blood and prosthetic coolant leading from the front counter, through the kitchen, to the alleyway. His prosthetic was most likely rendered useless from the shot.”

“You believe he was fighting one handed then?” Winston asked.

“Yes.” Hanzo shifted his balance, ignored the weight of attention on him. “I’ve sparred with the man. An apt description would be a dog with a bone. Even one handed I do not believe he went down easily.”

“You are saying then that Deadlock suffered losses in pursuing McCree?”  
  
“There were bloodied footprints in the kitchen that did not belong to boots. At least one poor fool was on the wrong end of the cowboy’s revolver.”

“I see. Agent McCree was known to carry speed loaders for his weapon.” The creak of a chair carried through, almost overlapped the next question. “How do you see him making it to the alleyway?”

“McCree fired all six shots.” Hanzo replied, quieted, formulated the words, then continued. “ With only one arm he couldn’t reload. He turned the revolver into a blunt weapon. The ornamental spur, though garish, is metal and could conceivably do damage to soft tissue such as an attacker’s eyes or throat.”

“With only one arm to defend himself it would make him desperate.” Winston said contemplatively.

“He was desperate.” Hanzo affirmed.

Lena’s hands tapped out in rapid, unconscious staccato on the desk. Brows drawn together, her express one of concentration before she cut in, “Well yes, given the messages and what the reports said, Deadlock had him cornered.”

“He would take a few of them with him.” Hana's words carried with them the defiance of youth; outlined in the tremble of an uncertainty not yet accepted. Lucio’s arm was still wrapped around her slender shoulders. The gamer’s hands worried the worn stetson, fingers creasing the heavy leather until it groaned in protest.

“McCree wasn't given a choice and he reacted,” Hanzo said.

“So he left the diner and made it out to the alleyway.” Winston ticked off the points. The entire event surmised into an impersonal list settled like a weight in Hanzo's chest. He knew the scientist thought with a mind for the important and didn't make room for the emotional. He forced himself to breath and unwind the pressure in his jaw at Winston's next question. “Then what? There was no report of McCree body. You found his weapon and hat. Based on your observations what became of McCree?”

“The Deadlock Rebels resorted to scare tactics. They most likely gave McCree two options; death or return,” Hanzo began. “Knowing the man and his thick head he gave them a rather crude answer. At which point they forced his hand. A broken man with nothing to lose comes quietly.” Winston’s subtle shuffling through the open line stopped.

“They took him I agree but when you say he was a broken man, what do you mean?” It was Lena who asked. Though he saw the same in the looks from the others.

“I'll show you,” he brushed aside Genji's hand, pushed the offer of comfort away and left the room, steps quick. The ancient holopad laid on the top of his belongings. It was an easy task to snatch the pad and return to the office. It took a few minutes to coax the holopad to life. When the projection appeared, grainy and washed out, there was a collective gasp at the image displayed.

“They planted a bomb. An explosion that pretended to blow up the safe house, and Deadlock used this information to corner him.” Hanzo heard the muted gasp from the couch. Lucio or Hana or both. The personal message on his own communicator laid heavy against his chest. “Convinced that we were all gone I am certain McCree fought until they disabled him. With one arm, no bullets, and the belief that the safe house was a pile of rubble McCree was very desperate.”

“You said he was shot in the prosthetic correct?” Winston’s voice held the tone of a mind working to solve an intricate puzzle, the gears obnoxious in their turning. The maddened tap of a keys followed the question.

“I did.” Hanzo stepped back from the desk, cast a curious brow up at the inquiry.

“There are a handful of mechanics skilled enough to handle the repairs McCree’s prosthetic would require.” Winston cleared his throat. The command returned to his words. “Finish your mission there.Your new orders are to locate and question the list of mechanics Athena is sending. Check your personal comms for details.”

“Winston, luv, what’s your plan?” Lena picked up the communicator, moved from behind the desk to stand in the middle of the office. The none too subtle shuffle of feet came from the duo on the couch, legs kicking the base of the beaten furniture as the occupants leaned forward.

“It’s a hunch,” Winston responded, hesitation evident in his tone.

“Winston we can’t work off hunches,” Hana started. The slight ire of annoyance in her voice. Up until this point she was a quiet listener but that idea of chasing geese in the hopes of finding a lead broke that shell. Hanzo noted Lucio’s grip tighten around the young woman’s shoulder.

“If Deadlock wants McCree for their use then they’ll need him intact.” Winston picked up his train of thought. “A shot as Shimada described means there is the potential for the bullet to breach the mechanical and human parts.”

“Deadlock will need an engineer trained in working with both to repair the damage or run the risk of McCree’s wound becoming infected.” Genji finished, speaking for the first time.

“Or a doctor. Athena has the blueprints for the prosthetic in her databases. Let me find it.” More typing. Papers shuffled across an infamously messy desk. The clatter of a plastic jar being dislodged or bumped by an errant elbow.

A schematic appeared in the air with Lena’s accelerator as the backdrop. Plans for the ancient limb hovered in the air. The impression of a finger where blue turned lighter than the surrounding outline followed the scientist’s explanation. “The coolant used to keep the connection running is corrosive when exposed to the air. That kind of damage is dangerous when in contact with human flesh. If it leaks into the receptor then McCree could lose the entire limb without the proper attention.”

“So we are to hunt down these engineers and they, what, just share their client information?” Hana’s skepticism was contagious. A quick glance to the faceplate aimed in his direction alerted Hanzo to the shared thought.

“Well no,” Winston wavered for a moment.

“We ask naturally.” Genji offered. A tint of humor outlined the modulated voice. A synthetic hand settled against Hanzo's shoulder. “Let my brother and me handle the list. Two people can hide and search better than the group here. No offense.” Genji continued with a chuckle. Hanzo felt the pressure of the hand squeeze through the fabric of his shirt; the touch itched and he wanted to knock it away. His hands stayed crossed over his chest.

“That's a good point,” Winston responded. “Is this arrangement agreeable to you Shimada?”

Hanzo nodded before voicing his consent. He could feel the smile on Genji’s face. He didn't shrug off the hand.

“Very well. You are to finish the reconnaissance then make your way to the port of Veracruz. The depot there is expecting the personal transport for Ms. Hana Song and her entourage.” The scientist snorted. Hana’s accompanying smirk told the whole story; the expression didn't quite reach her eyes. 

\-----

_The antiseptic wipe stung, a medical bite at the cuts between his knuckles. The cowboy’s face hadn't fared any better. Dr. Ziegler tutted between them, voice reprimanding their need for displays of machismo. He almost corrected her assumption when that infuriating southern drawl cut to the chase._

_“Angela you got it figured wrong,” the man's mechanical arm had been removed. Now the appendage lay at his side. Odd to see it detached from the body it belonged to. “We just got carried away. Too much adrenaline in the brain does that to a man.” McCree scratched at the bandages already applied to his chest. Tufts of hair stuck out at odd angles from under the white wrappings around that big head despite Dr. Ziegler’s attempts to tame the mess with careful movements._

_“Jesse McCree you know I don't believe that.” Angela clicked her tongue, examining the scarring around the leftover portion of the gunslinger's arm. “Is this true Mr. Shimada? You two are black and blue because of sparring that got ‘out of hand’?” She raised a brow, hands working meticulously to check the scar tissue around the appendage._

_He considered the words: whether or not he owed the fool the favor of going along with a half concocted excuse. “What Agent McCree says is correct.”_

_The accusations and declarations from an hour ago rattled around in his head. The gunslinger appeared the part of the court jester from silver spurs to ridiculous clothing choices but what he had said held truth. Hanzo would not admit out loud to being shaken but his actions had hurt Genji. He saw it in the way Genji was cautious, carefully optimistic. The cyborg was a man dancing around a tiger - a dragon - trying to befriend the creature while knowing the predator could easily snap him in half. The realization (it had always been there, he just never acknowledged) and the physical exertion cleared his mind. “We merely got carried away. It will not happen again.”_

_At Hanzo's admission he noted McCree's eyes widen. The man had been caught off guard. Good._

_“Of course it won't,” Angela responded and McCree winced when her nails dug a bit too harshly into the tender skin._

_“Think your finger slipped there a little doc,” McCree grunted with a tense strain to the words._

_"Apologies but if you think I believe that, you better have a bridge to sell me." Angela sounded anything but apologetic, pinching again before giving the appendage a pat. The gunslinger's posture relaxed once the doctor turned back to the laid out medical supplies. “Take these for the ribs and,” she handed a bottle to each man, “no more ‘sparring’.”_

_Both men nodded, albeit McCree a bit more hurriedly._

_“Mr. Shimada, you may leave. Thank you for your patience,” Angela offered a smile. The doctor returned to her current patient, tapping McCree's scruffy face to draw back his attention. Her finger prodded at the hastily fixed nose before a loud crack signalled she had nothing more to say. The yelp the cowboy emitted was far from dignified. “If you had done this right the first time…” She drowned out any further complaints from McCree, smacking at his face when his head turned slightly._

_Hanzo slide off the table, bounced from foot to foot and moved towards the exit. The bottle sat in his palm. He offered the doctor a stiff bow in thanks, turned and left. His free hand came up, tugging the ribbon free from its tentative hold around his hair. The black locks fell, a tension released with the motion and the archer meandered through the halls. In his room, the bottle was placed forgotten on the desk. Running a hand through the hair at his temples, drawing circles at the points with just enough pressure, what McCree declared in anger and the concern of a friend still ringing insistently in his head._

_Two pills found their way down his throat._

\-----

Hanzo adjusted the jacket wrapped around his shoulders, mind running through the clues once more. The coolant on the diner floor meant a rupture to McCree's prosthetic. The blood trail beside the viscous liquid meant a secondary injury or a combination of wounds. A knife at the right angle could pierce both but the force needed to accomplish the task was too great. He dismissed the idea.

A gunshot could pierce through the metal and enter the flesh underneath where the coupling met what remained of McCree's left arm. Hanzo knew something of that nature meant nerve damage and the potential for severe infection. Cleaning such an injury would require extensive deconstruction of the coupling to remove the bullet lodged inside. He did not find a casing on the diner’s floor. That information dictated then there was no point of exit and whoever held McCree worked against time to battle an infection.

Deadlock was a ragtag shadow of its former self if the data was to be believed. Their reach and their influence would be waned. The back alley physicians and engineers willing to work for a penance could be tracked down. That was their new mission. Genji agreed. After the refueling a separate transport would take the younger members to Gibraltar. They would rename, take this transport to Santa Fe, and start their investigation.

He sequestered himself to the rear of the transport, alone with putting the clues together, searching for a hole in the working theory. Santa Fe faded away in the rear window. The remains of the explosion created a mar upon the scenery. Gathered near the cockpit the younger members indulged in idle chatter. Noise to chase away the darker ponderings. The puzzle set down by a handful of mysterious messages and one missing agent. The transport was somber without the boisterous energy to fill the empty space. Something was missing. They all knew what.

The arrival at the port was to the fanfare of a crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of the internet star and her entourage. Hanzo stayed aboard the ship, a data pad feeding back any and every article both Genji and Athena fed him. Anything to do with the Deadlock Rebels; their former glory, their disappearance, their renewed activity, and what tidbits of information he could locate regarding Jesse McCree.

Only three articles remained. Two of the pieces mentioned the attempts by local authorities to interrupt Deadlock’s weapons transportation and exchanges. A brief paragraph in each simply stated that the gang was recruiting local boys into the ranks. Quotes from officials either downplaying the situation while citizens denounced the attempts at a potential cover up littered the pages. McCree’s name along with several others were indicated as those unfortunate boys to let the ideas of fame and fortune win over their young minds. Hanzo stored the first two articles after a brief skim through.

The information gave an insight into the background of the gunslinger that the Overwatch files did not. A lonely child lured into the life of a criminal at too young an age. Hanzo leaned his head back, felt the cool touch of the walls of the transport, and the rumble of the idle engine through the ship. He felt the familiar ache buried deep in his chest twist. Similar yet different backgrounds. Memories of younger days pieced together with happiness and loneliness.

“Hey you alright Mr. Shimada?” Lucio’s voice carried from the front of the ship. Hanzo peered down the length of his face to see the musician balancing on his elbows between railings. Bare feet dangled just above the stairs. “Feeling air sick?” The concern weighted heavily in those words.

“I’m fine,” Hanzo responded, closed his eyes again, but the thoughts and their path were gone. Intangible.

“Then let me pick your brain,” Lucio thumped onto the steps, walking down and towards where the archer was firmly affixed. Hanzo leaned forward, upper arms braced on his thighs. He waved a hand - the universal symbol of continuation. “Right. We know something of your past Mr. Shimada. How the clan worked and what they did.”  
  
“It is all in Athena’s files. Easily accessible,” Hanzo kept his face neutral.

“Right,” Lucio nodded, arms crossed. His feet looked naked without the cumbersome skates. One foot tapped against the metal floor, the musician’s brow bunched down in thought. “What’s your theory behind all this?”

“They, Deadlock, want their property returned to them,” he said, hands outstretched as though the answer was obvious.

“Nah nah,” Lucio shifted weight from one leg to the other. “There is more to it than that. Why go to all the trouble of harassing the man then cornering and threatening him just to take him back? He wouldn’t have gone. Not willingly.”

Hanzo rubbed a hand over his face, massaged the bridge of his nose before answering.

“McCree fought back. He didn’t want to return to what he left. Athena’s files said Deadlock operated like a crime family,” he said holding his gaze even. The next words he forced out. They contained a truth he often contemplated yet never voiced. They were a thought he lingered on less and less with the decades as the ties were severed but the true escape did not come.  “Once you have become a member you do not simply leave.”  
  
“Like the Godfather,” Lucio interjected.  
  
“The basic concept, yes, but Deadlock probably doesn’t leave horse heads in beds as warnings,” Hanzo watched the forced chuckle from the musician. Shared in the sentiment. The brevity eased the tension that lingered.

“Thanks.”

Hanzo merely hummed in response. Lucio crossed the transport floor then jerked a hand at the empty place on the bench beside the archer. A silent request. Hanzo moved enough to make room. Lucio took the seat, shoulder rested against the metal bulkhead. The headphones wrapped around the medic’s neck pulsed out a gentle beat. It lulled through the quiet transport. For those moments there was nothing but the calm of the music and Hanzo was thankful for the reprieve from his hectic thoughts.

“You like that beat?” Lucio asked, breaking the serenity. Hanzo couldn’t be bothered to get annoyed at the interruption. The music still played.

“It is soothing,” he said.

“Mixed it for the cowboy. Kind of hoped it would help him sleep at night,” Lucio continued. The tone of the words distinctly morose. “Seems a shame to let the music go to waste. Do you want it?”  
  
“Of course.” Hanzo answered. The music soothed down to the core. He felt the sense of peace seep into his body.

“Alright. Let me see your com,” Lucio held out a hand and the device was pulled from the folds of Hanzo’s top. He handed the communicator over and watched as Lucio tugged a cable from his back pocket. “Can never be too prepared.” He smirked, plugged the cable between the two communicators, hit a few buttons, then placed the devices on the grounded table. “It’ll take a minute but once it’s done the song will be in with the rest of your music. It’s just listed under ‘Cowboy’s Sleep’. Real creative title I know.” Lucio laughed, rubbed a hand at the back of his neck.  
  
“I can rename it to something more suitable later,” Hanzo offered. Lucio might have done a double take but he couldn’t be certain.

“Yeah you could. Thanks for that,” Lucio snorted in obvious sarcasm. The communicators beeped. He grabbed them and handed Hanzo back his own. “There. Should be good. Hope it helps.” Lucio stood up, snatched the second device from the table, and shoved it into his pocket. “I’m going to see if they need help. Well find the cowboy. He’s too tough anyway.” He waved a hand behind, practically gliding down the ramp into the bustling mayhem of the dock. The music went with him.

Hanzo flicked through his communicator and gave the ramp another glance before playing the new song. The soothing melody flowed from the device. Wrapped around the hard lined interior of the ship like a woolen blanket. He let the music wrap him up and simply listened. His mind relaxed in those moments, wandered off to a village on a hill where the cherry blossoms bloomed and their petals created a storm of radiated pastels. An hour later the crew returned. Hana’s laughter breaking the trance. One eye watched them board, Genji sliding in last, as the ramp rose and Lena announced the next destination. Grand Mesa.

\-----

 _Monitor drones flew overhead. Their engines giving off a mute buzz that interrupted the gulls and waves. Hanzo moved back into the base proper. He glanced over his shoulder at the drone, scrutinized the machine, and tugged the hood of jacket higher. The door slide shut as his steps moved down the hallway. The base was quiet for the time of day. The barrage of feet that battled for position in the kitchen oddly absent. He rounded the corner into the area proper. No one. A glance at the mounted analogy clock confirmed the time so the lack of hungry mouths didn’t make sense._  
  
_The victorious cheer that erupted solved the mystery. Two voices he distinctly recognized. There was a third but muted. Perhaps a fourth. The hood of the sweater tossed back, hair in his customary tail pulled from underneath the heavy wool. That shout had become something of a calling card within the watchpoint._  
  
_The South Korean gaming sensation and national hero Hana “D.va” Song arrived with surprisingly little fanfare. An entourage disembarked from a state funded transport. Her meka was unloaded and taken straight to Torbjorn’s workshop to be inspected and stored. She had come after hearing about the renewed activity at the place. She wouldn’t divulge how she heard, only that a fly had her ear and she wanted to see for herself the heroes from the stories. That was three weeks ago. Only Hana and her meka stayed. The transport disembarked the next morning. The crates left behind held all of what Hana proclaimed as necessary. She holed up in an abandoned bunk room with Lucio for three days to convert to a gamer’s haven._  
  
_That endeavor overflowed to the main lounge room. Impromptu tournaments became a commonplace occurrence. Hanzo tried to steer clear. The noise was intolerable, the antics ridiculous, and the lack of proper games bothered him. Not to be the stick in the mud but he preferred the challenge of a shooter or battle royale game. The racing and other odd party games only irritated him. The noise only confirmed that another unfortunate challenger was defeated. Hana’s trademark call echoed through the base._  
  
_Hanzo entered the lounge, observed the crowd gathered. Hana and Lucio took up the couch. He could just make out the top of Lena’s head rocking on the ground in front. Winston was off to the side, a controller in hand, fingers too big swallowing up the plastic. Leaned against the back of the couch McCree situated himself between Hana and Lucio. His voice was the one that sounded in defeat._  
  
_“Another round?” Hana taunted, head turned, brow raised in obvious mockery._  
  
_“One more. Pretty sure you rigged this game or something,” the cowboy grumbled, shoulders slumped forward._  
  
_“Can you prove it?” Hana taunted._  
  
_“Probably hasn’t touched a game since Red Dead,” Lucio snorted, arms sprawled across the back of the gaudy sofa, head tilted back and relaxed._  
  
_“Don’t know what the is but I’ll take that as an insult,” McCree scooped the hat off his head, swatted the brim across the dreadlocks. Lucio laughed and his shoulders shook with the sound. Lena echoed the sentiment._  
  
_Hanzo leaned against the doorway, hands shoved into the front pocket. The shuffle of metal feet alerted him first. Genji was being cautious, made sure he was heard. It wasn’t wise to sneak up on a dragon._  
  
_“Brother.”_  
  
_Instead of a worded answer, Hanzo glanced over his shoulder in acknowledgement. His attention returned to the antics playing out in the common room._  
  
_“You can join them,” Genji continued, nonplussed._

 _“I do not wish to,” Hanzo kept his stance relaxed, eyes faced forward. He watched as Hana soundly beat the cowboy. McCree’s head slumped forward, remote held up in defeat for Lena to pluck it away. “It is not my place to disturb their enjoyment.”_  
  
_A hand rested against his shoulder. No heat in the contact, just the solid grip of mechanical parts._  
  
_“Your presence wouldn’t disturb anything,” Genji gave a squeeze before Hanzo shoved the grip away. The visor shifted, the head behind the metal tilted just enough to give the impression of an arched, arrogant or condescending brow. “Your attitude might though.”_  
  
_“Then I will be on my way,” Hanzo laced the words with a hint of annoyance, nostrils flared, and left the lounge._  
  
_It was late anyway, time to wind down, to meditate. The way to the rooms was across the lounge - there was no avoiding the interaction. As brief as it may be. The silence that followed his steps tensed the broad line of his shoulders. He stalked through the common area, ignored the curious way that eyes glanced at his retreating back, and pushed into his personal quarters. Slammed in the code for the door a bit too harshly. Within the confines of the quiet, the voices of banter and harmless verbal jabs faded behind the thick metal of the door._  
  
_The hoodie was thrown off, replaced with a loose shirt and sweatpants. Ankle socks slipped on cold feet  and he settled in the middle of the room. Meditation never came. Hanzo’s mind wouldn’t allow him the quiet necessary. The sounds of excitement and camaraderie leaked through the cracks in the door undermining in his calm. Felt his brow tick at the uproarious guffaw of a certain American. He breathed, focused on the inhale and exhale to center himself. Hanzo opened his eyes, focused on the miniature succulent sitting in the window. A Jade plant his brother gave him after the first week of being assigned the private room. The broad, rounded leaves served as his focus yet now there was finding that focal point. Another round of obnoxious cheer sealed the deal._  
_  
Meditation was simply not going to happen. Hanzo stood, grabbed the hoodie, slipped the clothing over his head, and left the room. Unconsciously his feet wandered back to the lounge. Hooded sights glanced up, silent in their observation of the room’s occupants. The antics, the laughter, the smiles and cheer that filled the air was contagious. Hanzo shoved his hands into the front pouch of the hoodie, leaned into the solid wall, ankles crossed to simply watch. These were to be his new comrades. They were an estranged gaggle of misfits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the lovely MJ for the support and peanut gallery commentary. Also this chapter was pushed out sooner than originally intended in order to be a pleasant surprise and present for MJ for their birthday. Go give them cookies. :3
> 
> Whiskey Lullaby now has Fanart!  
> \--> That one scene where Hanzo and McCree get into it.  
> ["Can't trust a man who won't fight his own battles."](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com/post/154921079736/for-my-wonderful-friend-and-beta-captainxcorgi%20)  
> \--> That one scene where Hana and McCree are in charge of dinner and McCree ends up doing all the heavy lifting.  
> ["This is dinner?"](http://lucydoesart.tumblr.com/post/154345712337/commission-for-captainxcorgi-they-write-fanfic)
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!  
> Kudos are appreciated! Comments are adored and always replied to!


	8. 'Neath the Halo of a Streetlamp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.
> 
> [I love the Disturbed rendition of this song but for the mood of this chapter, the musical score for the Simon and Garfunkel version was more fitting.]
> 
> My apologies for this taking a hot minute to update. Real life has been rather unrelenting as of late. Rather than bore you with the details, just know things are on the verge of settling down. Thank you to all those who have hung on with the story thus far. Now let's continue with the story shall we ...

The clinical atmosphere of the store felt more like a surgeon’s ward than a machine shop. Various parts and pieces in glass cases lined the walls. A sterile, bright light illuminated everything. Hanzo stood by the counter, stance forced into relaxation even as the tiny communicator in his ear transmitted the howl of the wind from the roof above. They had agreed it best for Genji to stay as the look out. Perhaps an unnecessary precaution but the neighbourhood around this store (their final destination in a, thus far, fruitless endeavor) spoke of rough times and tough men.

Hanzo's armory was stripped to a pistol hidden in a underarm holster and a dagger strapped to his calf. The traditional kyudo-gi traded for designer jeans, a long vintage shirt, and loose jacket. Clothing meant to conceal but allow him freedom of movement. His hair was pulled into a low tail, tucked against the base of his neck, and tied off with a short ribbon. A nondescript sack taken from the storage of the transport rested by his right leg.

He tried to locate a bell or some other means of summoning the store tender but had no luck. In lieu of that, he rapped his knuckles against the display case. The sound his hand made felt hollow and disjointed - something interrupting the quiet of the store. The action produced no immediate result and the wind continued to sing through the earpiece.

“ _An old man has entered the alleyway, heading inside the back of the building,”_ the crackle of static followed by the mechanical yet familiar voice. He nodded.

“ _Understood,”_ he replied. The way his native language rolled off his tongue was a small comfort.

As if on cue,, the sound of a door closing confirmed Genji’s words. An old man shuffled through a door frame. Nailed above the threshold, in bold letters, the words off angle indicative to the craftsmanship of unsteady hands, read the words “Employee Only. Rule Breakers Shot.” Rather harsh but Hanzo looked at the man who entered under the warning and could think of the words as only fitting.

The man was hunched forward with shoulders curled, hands covered with worn workman’s gloves. The battered leather slapped the glass as keen, silver eyes caught and held Hanzo’s gaze. The stance didn't lessen the man's height - at least a good two or three inches taller than the archer. His hair was haywire from the winds in the alleyway and revealed that one ear showed two chips of missing flesh from the helix. The shopkeeper now stood behind the counter, stern brow pulled forward, and wearing an expression of curious annoyance.

“Buying or selling?” The man asked, voice gruff with the very same annoyance.

“Repairs,” Hanzo answered, shifting his stance and heaving the plain bag onto the counter. The clatter of metal on glass echoed off the walls of the eerily silent store.

The old man didn't say a word and opened the pull string, dumping the contents onto the display case. A prosthetic arm - an ancient piece of equipment scavenged from the boughs of Gibraltar. Genji helped scuff them up and reconfigure the prosthetic to mimic the prototype originally fashioned for McCree. The skull faceplate purposefully left off. The old man's  gloved hands held the arm and turned the appendage over. Silver eyes moved from the arm to Hanzo's sleeves then back again.He laid the arm atop the display case and traced the lines of the faceplate with a calloused finger.  He seemed to be searching for something until his fingertip found an indent and slid against it to trigger a hidden catch that let the plate swing open on rusted hinges..

“You have both your arms,” the man said, leaning down to more closely inspect the innards of the prosthetic.

“This is not for me. I need it fixed,” Hanzo answered and pulled the bag to bunch away from the lifeless prosthetic.

“The neural connectors are frayed. There is water damage to the internal calibration. At least two missing coolant clamps. Removed or sheared off. Whatever fool used this believed the idea that uninterrupted flow between valves would increase reaction time,” the old man said. The arm seemed overly large in his slender fingers. The prosthetic was held up and examined under a critical eye. That the shopkeeper was able to examine the whole piece in a matter of seconds while still carrying on such an innocuous conversation without missing a beat bespoke of his familiarity with this situation.

“Can it be fixed?”

“I need the owner to do any repairs,” the old man set the arm down and pushed it towards Hanzo.

“For all the repairs?” He returned, not daring touch the arm, and merely waiting for an answer. The wind had stopped howling. Genji cut the line. Hanzo stopped himself from looking to the ceiling and searching around for a hint that the cyborg was lurking close and in the shadows.

“No,” the man began, his gloved hands splayed on the counter, his stance holding his body upright at an angle. Silver eyes flecked with weary calculation. “This isn't for you. Metal this old doesn't mimic the movement of flesh so well and you don't have the owner, or so I'm assuming.”

Hanzo nodded, choosing to keep his tongue still and instead simply listen and sift through the information given by the old man.

“If you're looking to sell then I'm not interested,” the old man looked at the arm as though personally offended by the prosthetic. “I don't deal in stolen goods and you're coming off as ten ways to shady, son.”

“I am not familiar-” Hanzo began, before the shopkeeper interrupted him by drumming his fingers in a quick staccato on the display case.

The old man released a dry chuckle, shaking his head as if amused by the attempt at a lie. “If it's not stolen then how did you get it? Why do you want it repaired? You've got both your arms and there are better models available.” A slender arm jerked out, the prosthetic in the man’s gloved hand, and acted like some macabre, dark humored pointer. The glass cases showing off models that could be purchased for a decent price or retrofitted in a matter of weeks for a cheap upcharge.

“It holds sentimental value,” Hanzo started. Ignored the way the echo of a chuckle cut through the communicator line. His brother was having a particularly amusing time catching snippets of the conversation and commenting on the way the shop attendant was unabashedly grumpy and suspicious. “It belonged to a friend. The other shops I've visited could not offer any help. They said throw it away or sell it for the scraps-”

“You should,” the old man nodded.

“But it is all that is left of my friend and I would like to see it restored,” Hanzo continued as if the man hadn't broken the explanation.

“You just want it working? Functional or fully restored?” The old man's hand stopped over the interior. The faceplate hiding the fingers as they fiddled with the innards. The aged face went slightly slack, those silver eyes jerked up. “You said your friend is dead?”

“Gone, yes,” Hanzo heard the wind again through the earpiece, followed by the nearly silent thump of Genji’s feet hitting the ground.

The old man hummed. He held the prosthetic again, then slammed the face plate down. “I can fix it. It would take at least three weeks for the parts to come in as I'll have to special order them or make them. The costs won't be cheap and I can’t guarantee it will function without the biometric reading of the wearer for compatibility.”

“That is fine,” Hanzo now stood, right hand digging into the pocket of his jacket to fish out the unassuming, worn wallet. The credit card given to him for this very reason flipped out with the flick of a thumb. “How much?”

“Ten thousand,” the old man said.

The number inwardly balked Hanzo. Genji's curses buzzed in his ear from the comm. The allocated funds towards this investigation barely numbered in the thousands. What the man asked was outright extortion.

“Five,” Hanzo retorted. The plastic tapped against the glass.

“Nine,” the old man came back. “The parts needed are either special order or I have to manufacture them myself, as I said. Neither is cheap for you.”

“Six,” Hanzo ignored the reasoning. The card tapped again - a lackluster rhythm relaying his impatience.

“Eight and a half,” the man picked up the arm yet again and moved further down the counter, prying open a drawer hidden under the counter.The clatter of loose metal accompanied Hanzo’s steps to follow. His return offer not yet voiced. The old man shuffled through the drawer then produced a rectangular box and an unmarked sheer, cylindrical container. The contents of which were an odd, off color blue and decidedly viscous. “Molding gel.” The old man didn't skip a beat, popping open the lid, and stick two fingers into the gel.

“Seven,” Hanzo reinforced the statement with a tone broaching as the final offer.

The old man swirled out a glob of the gel, examined the extraction, and huffed out a degrading laugh. “You're wasting my time. You came to my backwater shop because no one else could or would take your repairs. This isn't stolen,” he nudged the lifeless prosthetic. “Sure. But I work with the same clientele for years and either they sent you or you're at the end of your rope trying to unload confiscated goods. Which is it?”

Hanzo schooled his face and snatched the card up, shoving the flimsy plastic back in the wallet. Down the line Genji’s combination of choice words and laughter echoed Hanzo’s own desire to do just the same. This was the eventuality they had originally  planned for, hoping to never turn to a secondary lie.

An elegant arch overtook his brow. “Looking for a bounty,” he said. He pulled a crumpled, recently folded piece of paper from his rear pocket. The old-fashioned printout of a wanted poster slid across the glass. The old man gave it a single glance and chuckled. Silver gaze turning to the prosthetic with a new light.

“His?”

“It was.”

“You're a lucky fella then. He ain't an easy bastard to track,” the old man scooped the gel and smeared the substance across the internal compartment. The skinny, long fingers worked mechanically without breaking the flow of conversation. “Won't ask how you came by it. Trade secrets and all,I understand. But why do you want this piece of, well, shit repaired?”

“It'll sell,” Hanzo listed off the excuse from memory. The black market wasn't just for warm bodies and weapons. Overwatch left nearly three decades of a legacy. Scavengers, those with dark fascinations, and the oddball collector would pay handsomely for memorabilia from the defunct organization. The chance to get grubby hands on a piece of one of those defamed heroes - the infamous Jesse McCree - carried an attractive price to the right pocketbook.

“Smart man!” The old man's eyes lit up with an unabashed enjoyment at the clever idea. “Hard to track without a paper trail. Fuck the pieces of Zurich still sell here and there. Bunch of pecking buzzards the dealers but,” those hunched shoulders moved in what Hanzo approximated was a shrug. “They're useful and keep this place running. Imploding was the best thing Overwatch ever did for the black market types.”

“Perhaps,” Hanzo played the part he picked for himself, partitioning off his mind and taking to the persona of his years as a wanderer.  He studiously ignored the irritated grumble sent through the comm line from his brother, Genji’s reiteration to the merits of the organization were up for dispute at the moment.  If playing a part required him to profess a dislike for those whom he owed his honor to, then so be it.

“So,” the old man seemed more talkative now. His gloved hands closed the control panel. Molding gel seeped through the cracks. The sharp blue oozed from the seams - a stark contrast over the dull, worn metal of the prosthetic. “That'll take a few hours to set. No cost for the mold but I can get a better eye on what pieces inside will need fixing before taking the whole bitch apart.” The old man tugged at the hem of the gloves, adjusted them, a sleeve slipped back, and the flesh underneath held the beginnings of a faded tattoo.

“We haven't decided on a price,” Hanzo asserted.

“We have, actually,” the old man smirked. He continued to roll up the sleeves of the shirt. The weathered skin distorted what ink appeared. The stained bandage wrapped around the forearm concealed but couldn't hide the cross bones or skull. The lock and chain recognizable.

“We have?” Hanzo humored the man. Mentally calculating steps to the door. The weapons the old man could reach. The potential for hidden firearms on that lithe body.

“Yes!” The old man beamed. “Eight thousand.” He leaned against the glass, hand motioned Hanzo to draw close. An action which the archer did not answer. The grin on the old man’s face turned wicked. The wave of a boney finger directed Hanzo’s vision down, over the counter and to the wavered orange and reds indicative of uneven weight distribution on a security sensor. The unmistakable report in flashing red letters of _potential omnic_ glared back at the archer. “Electromagnetic pulses do terrible things to mechanical parts.” Hanzo understood the threat. The shopkeeper’s emphasis of turning his silver gaze towards the ceiling unnecessary.

“Understood,” he pulled the card back out, slid the hard plastic across the glass and watched the old man snatched it up.

“Pleasure,” a mocking wave with the card. The plastic pocketed and a hand extended out in a mocking, familiar gesture. “Dr. Price.” Hanzo shook the gloved appendage. Felt the weight of understated strength hidden by leathery skin and solid, almost seamless calfskin.

“Himura,” Hanzo offered, withdrew his hand, and resisted the inclination to shake it in disgust.

“Going to gather that's your surname?” Dr. Price ran the card. The reader was an archaic piece of machinery and it required more than one swipe to get the card registered properly. There was a moment of mild panic. The itch in the bottom of his gut responsible for worst case scenarios began the traitorous crawl upwards. Then the card rang through and relief was a palpable entity lounging on his shoulders. The tension in them released. The old man, the shopkeeper, Dr. Price, whatever his moniker handed the card back with a cheerful smile. The ignored question forgotten. “For that price I can offer you this; the kid whose bounty you want returned to Deadlock? Passed through near a week ago. Made quite the explosive entrance and exit.”  
  
Hanzo watched as Dr. Price stored the prosthetic under the counter then leaned on the glass with all the casualness of a friendly conversation. His hands found their way into the pockets of the coat. One brow arched in emphasis to the statement.

“They took your bounty with them,” Dr. Price returned the expression. Boney fingers scratched at the underside of a scraggle chin. “Best guess, they’re headed to their old station. Deadlock likes to cause trouble. Never could get it through their heads to change locations though. Creatures of habit.” A palm slapped down on the display case. The sudden noise was startling to the tense archer. “Arm should be done in three weeks. I’ll need a way to contact you or deliver address, granted that’ll cost you extra.”

The old man winked and produced an equally old clip board and paper. A pen attached via a simple chain through a hole punched in the top.

Hanzo left the shop a handful of minutes later. Dr. Price’s cheerful viper smile boring into the space between his shoulder blades. His hand snapped up smashed packet from the back pocket of his jeans. He bite the end, spit to the side, held the cigarillo between clenched teeth, and, despite the wind’s designs otherwise, was treated to the warmth invading his lungs. The effect beat back the chill of the descending desert night. His nerves calmed under the nicotine that caressed them. The package (stolen from the top of a dusty dresser) shoved into his jeans with the haste of an anxious man.

He left the sidewalk, found the hoverbike parked just down the block, and straddled the leather. Felt the worn cushion attempt to conform to him. Once more he inhaled, curled the smoke through the air, memories of a conversation in an alleyway lingered in the dying light, and the cigarillo bounced across the broken cement. The ashes snuffed out with the impact. The nicotine a temporary solution and a balm for the ache that ground against his bones. The engine roared to life under him. A rumble that shook and comforted. Hanzo’s hand reached up and flicked the switch, letting Genji’s voice flow down the line.

“ _His bad habits left an impression,_ ” Genji snorted. The distinct crack of metal against ceramic chased his voice.

Hanzo scanned the skyline. The various boarded shops and those in the midst of closing down decorated the landscape. Only the faded snatch of sunlight on a cybernetic arm told him where his partner lurked. The mocking, quick salute disappeared into the encroaching darkness.

“ _It is soothing. I do not have time to meditate,_ ” he dismissed the jab, feet kicked up, and guided the hover bike down the dusty road. There was silence from the other end. That kind of cool, contemplative hush that chased on the heels of deciding how to change a subject - knowing that business came first and jokes could wait.

“ _Dr. Price?_ ”

“ _Perhaps, though that title is one he most likely bestowed on himself_ ,” Hanzo responded, steering into the congested traffic. “ _He is an engineer and familiar in the maintenance of complex prosthetics._ ” The title of doctor left a twist in his chest.

“ _The doctor is more than just a man-”_ the sound of a chortle cut through the words. “ _-tooting his own horn._ ”

“ _Again, perhaps,_ ” Hanzo half rolled his eyes at the colloquialism.

“ _We're coming back_.” Genji’s thoughtful hum preceded the statement along with the distinct clatter of a body rolling into a crouch across a fire hardened surface.

“ _We are._ ” Hanzo nudged the hoverbike over more towards the turn lane. Ignored the looks of annoyance or suspicion cast his way. This was Deadlock territory and given the exorbitant count of cheaper model hover transportation, the high end, well maintained, sleek bike called attention to its rider.

Hanzo knew they couldn't move until later. The drive to their borrowed room was a half an hour away. They dared not use the safe house again so sooner after an obvious threat; a confirmation to the location’s status as compromised. The new location was fronted by an automatic bakery. The omnic kept on staff paid to ignore the activity in the upper room.

He parked the hoverbike in the rear and climbed the attached wrought iron stairs to the second floor. That Genji was already in the single room apartment went ignored. His brother’s ventilation system gave a muted, lime glow as the mechanics hissed. The release of air breaking the quiet. Hanzo settled on the couch, snatched the tablet off the coffee table, and scrolled through the reports feed to all agents as per Winston’s instructions. Athena kept them in the loop. For the most part.  
  
“Nothing new?” Genji asked, looking over the back of the couch.

“No,” Hanzo grunted. He locked and tossed the tablet with a clatter. Watched the device nearly slide off the table. The grace of the god known as physics stopped the impending crash. He pulled the communicator from his ear and the handheld from his pocket. Thumbed open the front screen and breathed a sigh.  
  
The first message preview read: _Lucio: This might help ..._

Hanzo opened the message. The news report imbedded in the message mentioned updates on the circumstances of the explosion from days ago. He scrolled to a section highlighted in neon green.

“Anything?” Genji’s vents closed with the question. The second hiss of air sounded like the heavy hand of disgruntlement. Hanzo shifted the screen, provided a better view of the article, and its front page headliner: one concerning Deadlock activity and displayed, front and center, a hasty snapshot of the supposed perpetrators climbing into two beaten getaway vehicles.

“They're on the move,” Hanzo studied the picture, barely paid the information a passing glance. It was everything he already knew.

“We should follow.” Genji circled the couch and snatched the communicator away. “We can go through an old man’s store later. This is a solid lead.”

Hanzo glared at his empty hands, fingers curled seeking the missing weight. “If you would allow me to finish.” He turned and grabbed the communicator, yanked free from Genji’s grasping hands. “We are here and going through with the original plan. Dr. Price is concealing something in that back room. His knowledge goes beyond just basic prosthetic engineering And,” Hanzo leaned into the couch, fingertips magnifying the image of the vehicles. The faces and licenses disturbed by debris and dust from the road. “He knew who Jes- McCree was. That is more of a lead than we had hoped to find.”

He ignored the weight of Genji’s stare. The visor boring a hole into the space below his neck.

\-----

_Maybe it was a week - perhaps two - after the encounter in the hangar bay, he found himself nursing the third or fourth saucer of sake. Genji left earlier, giving him space but not before placing a second saucer against his hip. He scoffed at the notion of company. He was out here, listening to the past creep into his conscious, riled up by a scruffy man with an infuriating accent. It was fake. He was certain. No man willingly talked like that. The gunslinger opened himself to ridicule, practically shouted atop the mountains for it. The drawl grated on his nerves._

_The man was insufferable. He didn’t sip the next drink. Instead tossed the liquid back, letting the burn of the alcohol coat his throat and bring him to the present._

_Winter was coming to the watchpoint. There was a definite chill to the air. Not so much that he required heavier clothing but enough that he had brought a rough blanket from storage out with him. The black fleece fabric rested across his shoulders, chasing away the bite of winter air that the alcohol did not. He was easily warmed from the inside and out. Sequestered into an alcove near the back of the complex, steel beams stood rigid behind him. The deep crimson of the painted beams were faded from sea spray. The empty launchpad to his left told of missions come and gone in the watchpoint’s hayday. Now it was a monolith to the times past. In the dying evening light, the sun falling behind the horizon, the crash of waves reverberating through his ears, the silent beacon of the lighthouse in the distance drew his attention._

_The brilliant beam rotated around as a warning flashed for the handful of cargo ships that passed through the waters around the base. He took it as a warning of where his own thoughts strayed. He downed another saucer of sake. The burn was leaving, his body growing numb to the effects of the drink. The second porcelain dish sat by his hip: innocent yet taunting. A silent invitation for someone to join him and, given Genji’s pension for interference, he groused at the implications. Spurs interrupted his thoughts and Hanzo gripped the blanket tighter, tugging it around as a feeble barrier. His head turned, glare leveled at the waves cresting on the rocks just offshore._

_“Shim- er, Genji said you wanted to talk.” No question. No polite inquiry. Just a statement of fact in that drawl. Instead of tossing the half empty gourd, he settled, shoulders hunched slightly, burying deeper into loathing. A moment of tense silence passed. The sound of spurs tapping against the ground. A metallic hand knocking a rhythm against an obnoxious belt buckle. “Sorry if I’m interrupted something.” Hanzo glanced back, catching the gunslinger turning, red serape bound tight around broad shoulders._

_“Stop.” He barked. McCree stilled at the command, not turning immediately. He sighed, adjusted the gourd and poured a generous helping into the second saucer. Sometimes his brother was wiser than his years. He hated him for it. “Company would not be unwelcome.” The barest consent but it was there. The cowboy earned points for his cautious response though - not a wounded animal but definitely a dangerous one. McCree folded himself at a respectable distance, legs crossed, accepting the offered drink. The gunslinger sported the last discoloration of a black eye and a bandage across his nose stabilizing the cartilage._

_“Thank’ya kindly,” the prosthetic hand tipped the saucer, draining the alcohol in a single motion. Subtle but Hanzo caught the grimace at the taste of the unfamiliar drink._

_They sat there, Hanzo refilling the saucers until the gourd was empty. He hadn't brought out another one but the pleasant heat from warm insides beat back the chill. The sun was long gone, winked away behind the sea line. McCree's occasional adjustment, boots sliding against the ground, interrupted the picture. The man really did not know how to quiet his mind yet the gunslinger never broached the serenity. No harsh drawl. No rumbling laugh or gaudy jokes. Despite his presentation as a bumbling fool he was less than inept._

_“You can not trust a man who does not fight his own battles,” Hanzo said, breath coming out in puffs of white smoke. It was colder than he’s anticipated. The blanket would have to do._

_“More or less,” McCree looked at him, head cocked askew._

_“What has Genji told you?”_

_“He wants to make amends, fix the bridge between the two of you. The man has the patience of a saint. He’ll wait until you're ready, I assume,” McCree slipped a cigar between his teeth, biting off the end and spit the mess over the cliff. “You mind?” Hanzo nodded in acceptance, attention turned back to the lighthouse. “My apologies about the-” the gunslinger tapped his side in sympathy “-but you seem like the kind that maybe answered better to fists than words.”_

_“And you took it upon yourself to do so?” Hanzo chuffed, not stopping the wry smirk that appeared._

_“Someone had to. Seemed fitting it’d be me,” McCree cupped his hands, lighting the cigar and breathing in while savoring the flavor before releasing it into an imperfect ring._

_“You think so highly of yourself,” another grin. The archer tugged the blanket tighter, a physical barrier to the outside world. The alcohol made him feel like floating but it was pleasant and he embraced it wholeheartedly._

_“I get that a lot.” McCree leaned forward, cigar dangling from his fingers and forearms rested easy against his knees. The stetson was tipped back. Moonlight cast odd shadows across his face and Hanzo studied them. The weight of a hard life lay under the laugh lines - hidden behind a facade of nonchalance and endearing southern charm. A gentleman with a bloody past. Like himself. “But I'm serious. Give the man a chance. He’s changed, forgiven ya. Hell he's a stronger man than most. I mean, when you first arrived all I wanted to do was rearrange your face. Actually getting to do that though wasn't as fulfilling. You fight dirty.” McCree thumbed his nose at the last remark, wincing but the message was clear._

_“‘I have one hell of a hard head’, I believe were your words,” he replied, catching the movement. A throaty chuckle shook his chest. Later he may blame alcohol but in the present, in the moment, he allowed the sound and reveled in the surprise on the gunslinger’s brows. “I have honor but winning doesn't always mean playing by the rules.” He gave the cowboy a cheshire grin and was rewarded with a broad hand clapped across his back._

_“I'll be damned. You got emotions other than brooding.” McCree removed his hand, adjusting his serape and puffed on the cigar again. “Now I still don't care for ya a whole lot but I kind of like you. Maybe that stick ain't so far up your ass after all.”_

_Hanzo jerked at the last part. He was more taken aback at the crassness of the tone than the words._

_“There was never a stick up my ass as you so politely put it,” he grumbled._

_“No? I'd say your attitude suggests otherwise,” McCree was full on flashing teeth and confident, posture open and taunting._

_“Filthy,” Hanzo said, tipping the gourd against his lips and finishing the sake._

_“Been called worse by better.” McCree said, settled down with a shoulder against the beams of the launch pad, mimicking Hanzo's stance._

_They stayed like that for a while more. A companionable quiet between them that neither wanted to break with unnecessary words. There was a mutual respect - tangible in the space they shared. Hanzo realized that he might under the haze of alcohol, but at the moment he couldn’t help but think that maybe the cowboy wasn't so bad. McCree was still a mess but a man willing to fight tooth and nail for those he cared for and who could almost best him in a brawl was worthy of some consideration. The gunslinger's presentation of himself was another case entirely._

\-----

“ _Back alley is clear,_ ” Genji reported.

“ _And you?_ ”

“ _One minute then I will be._ ”

Hanzo hummed an automatic response, the deceptively small electromagnetic pulse disruptor secured against the locked door. He stepped away, out of range, the remote held at his side, thumb glided over to press the imitation switch.

The EMP activated. The fizzle followed by a muted click signaled the device worked. There was a twitch from his legs. The mechanical components in the armor protesting being near the pulse

“ _Hanzo_ ,” the line crackled.

He ignored the call, testing the door, and slide into the store. With only the long shadows cast by moonlight, the store felt far less oppressive in its design. The stillness pervaded and his steps refused to disturb the silence.

 _“Hanzo._ ” A pained grunt followed.

“ _What?_ ” He snapped.

 _“You got me,_ ” the strain in the words stirred worry on his gut. He stepped back out the door. Hanzo jerked his eyes skyward, searched for evidence of Genji's form, or the quickest route to the adjacent rooftop.

The lime green from the visor peeked over the edge. He didn't need the communicator to hear Genji's chuckles. The faceplate hide the mischievous smile he felt beaming through the metal.

“ _Not the time,_ ” Hanzo curled up his lip in disdain and slipped back into the shop. The glass counter sat containing its menagerie of mechanical components and offerings. He ignored those, skirted the edge, and vaulted over the barrier. The bare twitch to the corner of his mouth wasn't contained.

“Saw that brother,” the flash of green swiping past his elbow was all he needed to know that Genji followed. Caught out, Hanzo schooled his features back into neutrality and crossed the space behind the counter to the back door. The panel pressed to the wall beside the door flashed red. Locked. The electromagnetic pulse didn’t do its job. Or didn’t reach this far.

The mechanism was keycode based. A series of four or five numerical inputs in a pattern. Repetition was entirely possible. Hanzo reached underneath the pad, fingers touched and prodded for a seal. He heard the shuffle of feet across the tile floor of the shop. The front door was closed. They kept the lights off and their movements quiet. That he could hear Genji meant his brother didn’t intend on pulling a foolish stunt such as spooking him while deep in concentration.

Hanzo’s fingers found the barest indent. The seam by which the keypad sealed against its anchor. His nail scrapped at the crack, listened to the unmistakable scratch of plastic against keratin. The dagger swung free from his calf holster, the jean leg bunched to reveal the weapon, and the razor sharp point was shoved under the keypad. Used as leverage, he pulled an electrocution arrow from his back pocket, and wiggled the tapered end into the space created by his dagger. The alarm hadn’t sounded. If it was a silent alarm then they were already in trouble. Their was time limited, Hanzo guessed, at best around ten minutes before the authorities arrived to investigate any unnoticed security systems.

With the arrow head, now wedged into the space, he pulled the dagger out and resheathed the blade. Standing up, Hanzo tapped the activation button on the bottom of the arrow head and watched as the electricity ran through the internal circuitry of the keypad. The green keys burst into a bright red then faded out to a muted blue then white until the lights disappeared. He huffed and yanked the arrow head out.

Nothing.

“Damn,” he growled, pocketed the arrow head, now fizzled and useless, and arms crossed. Fingers tapped against the rough material of his jacket. The second plan, simply putting a bullet through the keypad, sounded reasonable at this point. That was a very cowboy fix.

Then the door slide open …

Genji on the other side, leaned casually against the frame, visor lit a vibrant lime in what Hanzo knew to be nothing short of amused victory.

“How?” Hanzo grumbled. Not waiting for an answer, he pushed passed the cyborg into the backroom. Only to be sorely disappointed.

“Back window.” Genji nonetheless supplied.

They stood staring at the room. Deflated. Hanzo wasn’t certain what to expect but the simple living quarters of an old man perhaps wasn’t on that list. A rough armchair with holes and stuffing coming through. A television set from fifty years ago. A kitchenette and a single, twin bed covered in wrinkled quilts all stood innocuous staring back at the intruders.

There wasn’t a Dr. Price in sight.

That was disconcerting. Hanzo expected a snoring old man or, perhaps, one even awake. There was neither and the place, while it had the appearance of being lived in, still felt abandoned. He felt the unease crawl through his spine and across the intricate patterns of the dragons. The beasts rolling in a match for their master’s anxieties. Genji’s hand on his shoulder stopped the rapid progression. Ventilation system hissing once more.

“A trap?” Hanzo whispered.  
  
“No heat signatures in the vicinity. None that aren’t sleeping anyway,” Genji offered, hand falling to his side, and moved deeper into the room. The cyborg followed the walls.

“Then a ruse,” Hanzo confirmed. “But why?” Though he said it more to himself than the other, Genji still turned from the corner he was inspecting.

“Or a cover. Remember Uncle’s store front?” Genji said, poking at the junction of two walls before moving to touch the decayed lampshade. The lamp underneath shook then clattered with the distribution.

“Vaguely,” Hanzo admitted and took to searching the opposite side of the room.

“He was certain someone was out to get him. Always looking over his shoulder so he built a room behind the Rikimaru to look like he lived there. Sometimes he did but because it kept up the appearance. Most of the time he somewhere else,” Genji explained.

“I recall now. You spent many days hiding in that fake room gorging yourself on ramen,” Hanzo retorted, his palms feeling along the wall. The scene - both of them searching as thoroughly and quickly - had the feeling of something from a noir film. Hanzo half expected a falcon statue to appear that they could simply twist and a door would open.

“Don’t act innocent. I wasn’t always alone in my leftover ramen feasts,” Genji’s reminiscing chuckle curled around Hanzo’s gut. The sound of familiarity and memory sharp as the dagger against his calf. This was a personal mission to search for their team mate but this conversation hedged towards subjects, he felt, they couldn’t broach. Not yet. It was too soon. Genji’s qualms weren’t the barrier but his own.

Hanzo almost laughed when his hip bumped into the side table and one of the books on top shuffled. The cover flopped open as the book fell off the stack. Even in the darkness of the room, the only light being that manufactured by Genji’s body, Hanzo made out the imprint of a switch.

“Brother?”  
  
“A false bottom. Just like the movies,” Hanzo shifted to show Genji the find. He removed the molded cover and placed the piece of plastic to the side. The action disturbed a thin layer of dust in a puff. The switch was innocent enough; simply sitting there in the quiet, staring back with the potential to provide a lead to their lost comrade or nothing at all. He took a breath, nerves steadied, and foolishly flipped the switch. The possible outcomes too numerous to consider.

At first, there was no reaction. Genji kept his distance, continuing to move around the room, and for that space Hanzo was thankful. Then, muted, as if from a distance, a whirring whisper knocked against the wall before him. He stepped back. The wall didn’t open or part like he expected but, instead, it shimmered then faded to reveal an extension; a scene from a surgical horror movie.

“Well this is unexpected,” Genji’s tone was neither jovial or surprised but bordered on muted shock.

Standing, as they were, in the scene of something straight from a domestic setting, the break in sight from carpet to cold tile, and from the warm walls to the chilled white of a surgery was jarring. Hanzo returned the molded plastic to its place. The book closed and replaced on the top of the stack. He stepped into the separate room, the dark stain on the left side of the surgical table glaring in the whiteness. The screech of wind against wooden walls created a background of anxiety. The thought of a silent alarm storming into the forefront of his mind. The stain, as he moved towards the table, turned from definitely blood to a more viscous liquid. Turned and crusted to black with drying, the coolant for a prosthetic was unmistakable with its acrid, sharp smell. The conversation with the shopkeeper returned. Hanzo’s gloved hand moved over the stain, scraped at the dried liquid, and watched with a sort of hollow expression as the flakes drifted down.

“Dr. Price is really a doctor it seems,” Genji broke the concentration.

“He operated on someone,” Hanzo turned his head, gaze searching the room for further clues. There was nothing that definitively said McCree was here. That this coolant was the cowboy’s. That this tables was were the man endured a surgery, undoubtedly, against his will.  
  
“Jesse?”   
  
“Perhaps. Search for something more concrete-” Hanzo cut off his sentence, the beep of his communicator demanded attention. The light from the screen bright in the dark surgery. The message across the screen flashed in a furious red of urgency. He flipped it open.

Across the screen, hurriedly typed, was a warning.

 

 **Lucio  
** **> >** leave. now! ther is a alrm they kno!

  
  
The sound of a vehicle in an abrupt stop drifted to the back room. At least one response then.

Hanzo snapped a photograph of the room with the device, crossed the surgery, and memorized the room’s layout all in the span of a heartbeat. He didn’t question the fact that Lucio knew his location or how the authorities were alerted. There was time for that later. The thought at the forefront to get out and leave behind no evidence of their identity. His gaze darted to Genji’s last location but the cyborg was already gone, the window to the fake room opened. “Back window,” Hanzo growled and followed, bodily vaulted out of the room to find himself in a back alley. The thick air of a desert night overbearing. The usual cold replaced in favor of something more fitting - even mother nature understood the atmosphere. He scaled the side of the opposite building, found Genji waiting, and they left the shop.

The bang and shout of an infiltration team trailed them.

Across roofs and blocks away, Hanzo stopped, opened the communicator and flipped through the newest message. He read the words three times, eyes narrowed, teeth ground together, followed by the feeling of sinking that chased on the heels of the message.

He hit the call button with more force than necessary. Ignored the way Genji tilted his head in inquiry.

“Is that report true?” Hanzo snapped. The man on the other end didn’t deserve the ire but there was a flood gate and it had been thoroughly smashed.

“Mr. Shimada-” Lucio’s voice sounded broken.

“Is the report true?” He snarled. The hand holding the communicator white knuckled. He shoved off the hand on his shoulder, glared at Genji, and backed away a step. He needed distance.

“According to the news report, yes, it’s true,” Lucio answered. "But Athena is running a second-"

He ended the call without another word, stared across the skyline from the roof, hand fisted around the device like a lifeline. His body caught in a fine tremble.

“Brother?”

“The body was McCree.”

He didn’t believe it. Not until he saw the body.

“Hanzo.”

“He is not dead,” he ground teeth until his jaw screamed in protest. They weren’t searching for a dead man or on the assumption of one. The news wasn’t welcome. He believed otherwise, the thought of another possibility just as unsettling: being alive and trapped in an invisible cage with a family focused on exploiting one’s abilities … Hanzo knew too well.

“Where do we go then?” Genji kept the distance between them, arms loose at his sides, but fingers worked a shuriken between the digits - an old fidgeting habit. He didn’t argue.

“We find Deadlock,” Hanzo thumbed over the back of the communicator, recalled the words from Dr. Price. “They are creatures of habit. We find their old hideout and we find them.”  
  
“And McCree.” Genji finished, already moving to the edge of the building, and scaling down to the waiting, stored away hoverbikes.

Hanzo nodded. He followed and landed in a half crouch beside their vehicles. The engines roared to life and in the dead of the early morning, the thrust from the pads shot out behind them, the sound a scream echoing the determination to continue the search for a man trapped by people once considered family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always kudos and love to MJ for her support. She's my writing rock to be honest. (Don't tell her that though or she'll blush and I'll never hear the end of it. ;3)
> 
> Huge shout out to the mchanzo-ficrecs blog for their encouraging words and taking the time to visit this little tale!  
> [Review Here](https://mchanzo-ficrecs.tumblr.com/post/159492642750/whiskey-lullaby-captaincorgi-overwatch-video)
> 
> Whiskey Lullaby now has Fanart!  
> \--> Now boys settle down.  
> ["Can't trust a man who won't fight his own battles."](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com/post/154921079736/for-my-wonderful-friend-and-beta-captainxcorgi%20)  
> \--> Left in charge of dinner.  
> ["This is dinner?"](http://lucydoesart.tumblr.com/post/154345712337/commission-for-captainxcorgi-they-write-fanfic)  
> \--> Cornered in the alleyway.  
> ["He spat blood. His lungs burned."](http://kazimo.tumblr.com/post/158515726163/captainxcorgi-kazimo-a-mccree-piece)  
> \--> Sunset and sake in Gibraltar.  
> ["Maybe that stick ain't so far up your ass after all."](http://domirine.tumblr.com/post/158929047456/piece-of-hanzo-and-mccree-chillin-a-commission)
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!  
> Kudos are appreciated! Comments are adored and always replied to!


	9. A Thousand Lies and a Good Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from the song "You're Gonna Go Far Kid" by The Offspring.
> 
> I could offer excuses for taking so long on posting this or getting around to it but I won't. Instead know the plan is to become more regular with updates. And that I am grateful (from the depths of my cold, angst-ridden heart) for those that have stuck around and who read, kudos and take the time to comment. Y'all are the fire under my butt that keeps me going with this story. My sincerest thanks to all of you lovely readers. <3
> 
> Also MJ's mom makes the best pies. :3c

_The sun was high. Noon wavered on the horizon and Jesse was on lookout. This was punishment for the failed drop two weeks before. Bridges’ claim that the getaway was clumsy, the haul worthless, and the loss of the abandoned motel as a safe exchange location claimed all his fault._

_Jesse pulled the worn, torn brim of the hat further down. Buzzards called above, their search for dead flesh drawing them to this place. The dogs and coyotes that hung around picked at scraps. Often bickered amongst themselves. Jesse knew what a carcass three days in the sun and picked clean looked like. Knew the smell of rancid flesh and offal; knew the deadpan stare of a vulture decorated in the deep crimson of a mutilated carcass. Those doll eyes dug into his soul, searching for life, and deemed him unworthy of even a second glance._

_“Thanks,” he snarled, adjusted his weight to ease the strain of pressure against his breastbone. The metal that had been?chest piece shoved into his face lay to the side; forgotten. He kicked at the armor, watching as the piece bounced a few feet then skidded to a stop. Teetering on the lip of the roof. The threat that the armor might fall and topple down the dozen or so feet to the ground. Undoubtedly a loud noise would follow._

_Anger boiled in his gut at the unfairness of being forced to the roof. Shoved into the loathsome sentry position as a punishment for dereliction of duty._

_Jesse kicked again. He missed smacking the chest piece when his body jerked. The distinct crack of a rifle shot in the dry desert air._

_Sharp, cautious eyes searched the clear skies. The vultures were gone; the scavengers scattered by the abrupt, harsh noise in the thick stillness. His hands wrapped around the rifle that had been shoved at him earlier. An older model weapon. Though well taken care off, necessary when a bullet stood between his brains and life in a stuffy jail cell, the gun wasn’t his ideal choice. He preferred smaller arms. Closer combat. Knowing if the man on the other end of the smoking barrel was going to get up and keep coming or stay down where he put them. All lessons learned in his life now._

_There was nothing. Just sandy plateaus. The sunset baked into the sides of high canyons._

_He scrambled back from the edge. Scraped the rifle over the planks of partially rotten wood; a poor excuse for a roof. The metal sides of the gun distressed by the abuse._  
  
_This shot was closer. From the left. His ear ringing. The sound reverberated around and threw off his attempt to position exactly. Estimations in distance or direction were death._  
  
_Jesse slung the rifle across his chest, tucked it close, throwing his body across the roof to make a grab for the chest plate. The armor wasn’t for his breast, but for his neck. His head. The vital parts. Everything else could be fixed or repaired. The tips of his gloved hand touched the nylon, curled around the strap as the third shot snapped out. The armor sparked. He flinched, yelped, and recoiled. The armor tottered, slid, then disappeared over the edge of the roof. The clatter of metal against rotten wood a harsh, distinct crack in the air. Harsher than the gunfire._

_“Fuck. Fuck,” he whispered. Gaze now frantically scanned the air, searching for any sign of the origin of the suppression. The glint of a gunmetal barrel. The trail of smoke from a fresh round. Anything. Yet he found nothing._

_There was a radio. It was strapped into a holster and discarded just out of reach. Stuck in a crouch, arm still extended for the chest piece that wasn’t there. Knees bunched close to his chest. Jesse felt the sweat from nerves overtake the perspiration of the afternoon heat. He held that position, awkward, off kilter, barely balanced, with only his senses to act as guidance._

_The radio crackled._

_“Kid! You better have a damn good reason for making all that noise,” Bridges snapped through the static._

_He shifted, left hand moved towards the radio. Slow. Steady. His gloved hand brushed over the dial. All he needed to do was twist and pull the radio from the holster. A flick of the wrist and press the call lever to shout back an answer._

_The third shot went off. The radio fizzled and Bridges’ next tirade was cut short. The angry words lingered in the air; trailed after the echo of the shot. The miniature explosion seared his face for a breath then dispersed beneath the desert’s dominance. The sky was silent now. Jesse stared after where he presumed the shot came from. Followed the invisible line. With the impact the radio clattered and slide just enough to give him an idea. Using that as an anchor, he dared to breath and bring a hand to shield his eyes. Glanced across the uneven levels of plateaus and overhangs and boulders balanced in ways that shouldn’t be possible. No glint of a rifle but the sniper wasn’t aiming to kill. These were warning shots. Demands for him to not move, to stay quiet._

_He scoffed and dropped his hand only after waving a one finger gesture in the presumed direction of his antagonist._

_A fourth shot skirted off the roof, bounced over the wood, and he yelped in response. Recoiling, the shuffle of feet chased the round. Jesse gave the lines of red dirt earthen pillars a final look over. The gleam of metal from a barrel still missing. He swung around, scrambled the final distance to the edge of the roof. No bullet followed or found the tender flesh at the back of his skull. Regret from his hasty salute rolled away with the waves of heat. Heavy boots trampled out of the motel._

_“Jesse!” Bridges’ voice boomed. The man’s imposing figure staring up, broad hands across a barrel chest. An impressive brow drawn downwards to glare up. Three other men joined him. He only knew two of their names. “Get your ass down here!”_  
  
_“Boss,” he wheezed, glanced over his shoulder, the rifle scooped up, clung tight to his chest. A facade of fright pressed into place. His legs swung over the edge and leapt down to the walkway. With the solid walls of the motel’s second floor between his exposed back and the cliffs, Jesse slide down the banister to stop in a single puff of dust._  


_“Are you firing at jackrabbits? Think this guard duty is some kind of joke?” Bridges glared. The other men stayed quiet, but their ire was tangible. Jesse stood, his hands yearned for the revolver or even a switchblade. Just to hold. To comfort his frayed nerves. Despite the bravado of facing down the sniper, there was fear rolling across the surface of his sweat slicked skin._

_“No Boss. There’s someone out there. Sniper-” Jesse yelped again, the front of his shirt gripped tight in the brutal fist. Bridges tugged him close. The sneer so near that the facial features began to blur together. Jesse blinked, tilted his head away, tried to deflect the terrible stench of coffee and cigarettes and stale beer by not facing the source._

_“You ain’t lying?” Bridges hissed._

_“No Boss,” he answered, the rifle ripped from his grasp, then tossed to the nearest man. A quick check, the click of of the chamber being opened, the quiet, thoughtful of a man inspecting, and the snap of pieces folding back together followed. The weapon wasn’t returned to him._

_“He’s still got a full clip,” the man answered. Jesse watched the grunt swing the rifle around his shoulder. Resisted the urge to ask for the weapon back or to place his hands over Bridges’ to pry those calloused fingers from his shirt._  
  
_A moment of silence. Bridges’ stare bore into him, harsh gaze sought out the truth in the statement. Jesse stood his ground despite the sirens screaming he run and hide._

_“Get the men armed. Start packing. I don’t care if it’s just one sniper. We’re leaving. Now,” Bridges hissed. He released his hold. Jesse stayed there, didn’t dare dust off the remains of his disgust at being manhandled. Too many lessons at the back of those same hands or under the hammer of another member’s “teachings”. The other men ran off, back into the building, their shouts to get the rest of the gang moving came next. Jesse moved to follow._

_“Stop right there Kid,” Bridges wasn’t looking his way when Jesse turned back. The Deadlock member’s gaze scanned the lines of the plateaus and towering cliffs around them. The natural beauty of the creations taunted by the blight of the motel, its decrepit appearance, and the seedy, underhanded gang further ruining the place._

_“Yes Boss?” Jesse prompted._

_“You said sniper but you ain’t dead.”_  
  
_“Last I checked I wasn’t,” he snapped back. Immediately wanted to curtail his own tongue when Bridges’ nostrils flared just enough._

_“You knew they weren’t aiming to kill ya. Or did ya guess?”_

_“Dumb luck,” Jesse shrugged aiming for nonchalance. Bridges stepped forward, cut the imposing figure, but didn’t reach out. The grizzled man stared down._  
  
_“Where’s the sniper then?” Bridges looked around yet the weight of an accusatory gaze remained._

_“Don’t know-”_

_Bridges’ cleared his throat, weight moved to his dominant foot, and searched the high plateaus. The stance unmistakable. Jesse knew what came next; knew that if his next words weren’t what he needed to say then pain came quick and sure._

_The heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Snapped him from the internal debate. Steel eyes, razor sharp turned down to pin him under their weight. He didn’t even hear Bridges’ move._

_“South. Over the ridge there,” Jesse didn’t point, merely shifted his head in the general direction. “I’m only guessing.” Bridges continued to stare, waiting for more. “The first shot surprised me. The second not so much. The third sent the radio flyin’ across the roof. So, judging by that, he’s up there somewhere.” Jesse shrugged again, hands settled on his hips, thumbs hooked into the loops of the ragged, holed up jeans._

_“That’s all?”_  
  
_“Yes Boss,” Jesse ducked his head. A hand snapped out and grabbed his chin. Forced his head up. The pressure from a sharp nail dug into the tender flesh of his cheek. Jesse bit down the yelp but couldn’t manage to hide the wince._

_“Good call Kid,” Bridges released the hold, the hand reeled back. Jesse braced, shoulders tense, prepared for the snap of his head and the sharp crack of skin on skin. The pat that came instead, hurt worse. The action dug in the knife of his youth, his inexperience, his position in the Gang reinforced by the almost tender treatment. “Get your things. Load up. Seems we’ve been found out so time to abandon shop. Pity actually.” Bridges stepped towards the tavern and the noise of the men scuffling and hurried to pack._

_Jesse stood there. He watched Bridges retreat then stop and turn to glare out at the high towers of sandstone and rock around their dingy hideout. Jesse’s thoughts in a myriad passed in rapid succession; another home abandoned. If a broken hotel in the middle of the unforgiving desert and filled with ruffians, lawbreakers and murderers could be called home. Jesse huffed a sigh. The sound born from deep in his chest. The effort to exhale rattled his bones. His shoulders slumped forward. A weight no one his age should carry, yet he did because to do otherwise was death. This path he took ended two ways: a bullet between the eyes or hands bound in cuffs._

_A duo of men scuttled out of the tavern. They passed with a glare. Jesse returned the favor, arms crossed and feet settled in a defiant stance._

_“Kid!”_

_He didn’t hesitate, running into the hotel, seeking out the source of Bridges’ irate voice only to find the man staring out the ajar front door. Past the broad shoulder, barely eclipsed by the muscle and sinew, clouds of titian earth belched into the simmering air. The dust spattered up in disjointed parts; growing larger, gaining rapid ground towards their hideaway._

_“Grab what you can. We’re leaving,” Bridges turned, slapped a hand against Jesse’s shoulder, and swiveled the younger man to face the interior. The floor coated in a fine debris of unmistakable abandonment, scuffled footprints uncovered the partially rotten floorboards. Stacked in a haphazard pile behind the termite eaten bar, the crates of stolen and pilfered ammunition, arms, and other devices sat. Silent. Almost judgemental in that fact that all this was to be left behind. The sniper. The dust clouds. All pointers to a closing window of escape. Jesse felt his fist clench, palm aching for the weight of a weapon. His rifle was gone. A pouch strapped to his hip held bullets he couldn’t use._

_Then the ground shook._

_A cacophonous blast erupted and the entire left side of the hotel imploded, collapsed upon the unfortunate men still inside. Jesse crouched, tucked his heads, hands instinctively jerked up to cover the back of his neck. His forearms acted as cheap barriers for his ears, yet the ringing came anyway. His head rattled, teeth clattered, but the unmistakable roar of a transport engine above followed. The hazy desert heat of weeks ago flashed back. Bridges’ holler to haul ass out of the drop zone echoed where the ringing refused to stop._

_He uncurled with lungs full of sand and soil. The bandana around his throat was yanked up with a shaky hand._

_Jesse tried to glare through the man-made storm to make sense the chaos of the surprise assault and the frantic shouts of Deadlock in their attempts to scatter. In that moment, as a shoulder shoved him aside and the distinct shout of Bridges voice to find cover for himself and a man, with blood smeared across the side of a wide eyes face, whose name he couldn't place rushed past, Jesse knew. This was an every man for himself scenario. Deadlock was keen to throw them to the wolves, to toss bodies behind their leadership in the hopes the henchmen were slower than the monsters at their heels. Years within the gang to prove his usefulness, of concocting the schemes that became the Deadlock playbook, of making himself priceless meant nothing to them._

_The shouting broke the ringing in his ears. Crystal clear incantations from a booming voice._

_“Cover the flanks!”_

_The order practically bristled past his neck; far too close._

_Jesse ran. His feet pounded the dry desert ground. The worn material of the bandana felt plastered to his face by the backblast of debris. Sand gritted between his teeth. Through the haze of afterburn from a hovering transport he couldn’t rightly discern friend or foe; though that line was, perhaps, nonexistent. His gloved hand caught on rotten wood and flung his body around the ruined corner of a cleaved support beam. The soles of his boots skid and scuffed the boards of the patio._

_Dark outlines of hulking figures moving in tandem crossed his path. Jesse skirted to the side, throwing himself behind a the line of hoverbikes. Half of the vehicles showed dents and dings while the first in the room was missing its entire front axle and lift. Their metallic bodies offered an impromptu barrier. Jesse’s knees bounced off the ground and his hands scrambled to keep the line from toppling. He held onto the exhaust pipes like a lifeline. The cadence of an infiltration force faded. The engine of the transport gunned into a stationary roar; someone at the helm sounded impatient. That he took as the cue to move again._

_Shouts and screams of both man and machine cracked against the cliff walls. The sniper might still be up there. Still perched and hidden with that scope trained on those whose courage and loyalty had left them. Jesse didn't consider himself a coward. Not by a long shot but to survive this perhaps cowards had the right idea._

_A single syllable rolled in his head like the tumbleweeds the wind might blow in: live._

_His steps faltered rising from the crouch. That stutter of boots on hard wood sounded louder than the transport to his ears. The certainty the wrong person would hear or the wrong eyes turn his way felt clammier than the sweat running in rivulets between his shoulder blades. The bandana chapped his tongue, the fabric sucked into a wet mess with each haggard intake and his chest thumped like the beat of the bass drum at that thought._

_Another came chasing on its heels..._

_The lack of weight in his palm demanded immediate attention_

_Through the destroyed interior of the motel, his hip smacked into a crate destined for El Dorado and gloved fingers tore at the boards. Heavy duty nails kept them stubbornly in place but a single plank hung like a broken wing. His feet braced the side, arms outstretched, and yanked free the wood. A trio of guns feel out. Two - a plasma pistol and rickety revolver - he kicked away and snatched the rifle. Then he was running again with the weapon pressed to his chest. The chamber popped open and bullets, one after the other, were loaded in the most haphazard rush job he could imagine. But the weapon meant a chance and a far better defense than his bare hands and wits could muster._

_Six shots. That's all he loaded before the wall shook again and the sole surviving door kicked in at his back. Jesse slammed his back to the wall, felt the wood groan and rattle in protest and his hands tightened around the stock until his knuckles mimicked the wood in complaint._

_“Check!” One voice shouted above the din of the mayhem._

_Heavy booted feet and the distinct crash of wood being turned over came next. Then the clang of firearms being checked or tossed back into crates. These guys weren’t taking chances … not this time. The search crew was efficient. He had, perhaps, five maybe six seconds and wasted one with the time to count those. There were three exits. One blocked by assailants. One destroyed by the broken wall. One to his right around a short hallway. Only the hefty pillar in the middle of the main room and the thick dust in the air and that coated him kept his cover._

_Jesse cursed, inhaled until chest his protested and turned._

_In a half crouch, knees banged against the floor, he held the rifle in one hand and crawled. Down the tiny hallway to press his back to the door. With barely any pressure it opened. He tumbled out. The shout of surprise from the operatives inside accelerated his heart. The organ rammed against his chest in an frantic staccato._

_Make that two seconds._

_“Halt! Parate!”_

_Jesse dove over the lip of the porch, scrambled to his feet and ignored the pressure of knowing the barrels trained on his back. Another scream to stop. Instinct told him to fight, years of proving he needed to stand his ground, to show no fear rallied against the commanding voice in his mind that screamed to run._

_The rifle took aim. The weapon an extension of himself. As familiar as his own gangly limbs and the weight of the stock merely absorbed like another piece of clothing. It wasn't a calmness as so many stories of bravado claimed but a clarity that wrapped greedy arms around his consciousness. The barest glint of sun off the hard Kevlar and metal armor pieces directed him.Behind the barren face plates he couldn't see the whites of their eyes. Didn't need to. The crack where breastplate met shoulder armor was enough._

_Jesse fired. The stock slammed his chest once, twice, three times. Cocked and ready in that single second span of an exhale. The answer to his foolishness was a searing pain alongside his hip. He rolled over the ground, feet kicking away from the open door frame. The red dirt cloud churned up in the fray saved him from a more lethal retaliation._

_Behind the burn and blister of grit in an open wound the prick of a mosquito followed. Sharp, precise, and right beneath the line between where his shirt rode up and his belt struggled to keep too loose jeans from falling off ragged hips._

_He rolled and stood, ready to run. Only to have his knees buckle. Jesse watched with wide eyes as the ground rushed up and slammed into his face. Stars and song birds followed. Each limb felt like a thousand pounds and his body languished in a way that was worse than any of the too many whiskey benders Deadlock enjoyed after one more victorious haul. The rifle skidded over the ground. The weapon might've been a million miles away. His fingers brushed the strap, eyes fighting against the haze of black and his mind screaming to just get up._

_That wasn't a mosquito._

_“Got one!”_

_“Nice shot Captain!”_

_The words came to him warped and wobbled. The sentences that followed broken and mismatched. He felt his limbs struggle as firm hands took to his non compliant body. His tongue couldn't be bothered to form coherent protests. Rage burned in his gut as his arms were yanked back. The blank faces of masks eclipsed his vision then a face appeared. Jesse snarled at the look in the nondescript brown eyes staring back. The bandana was yanked away from his mouth and throat and darkness followed as a new, coarse fabric took its place._

_The faces disappeared and so too did his struggles. Sight slipped through his fingers like the sand in the desert and a final curse to his dumb luck followed._

\------

“Get up,” a boot nudged against his ribs.

Jesse scrunched his eyes tight, rolled away and muttered a string of curses. The hood over his sweat mangled mane of hair made closing his eyes pointless. The audible, throaty growl that followed his refusal earned a humorless snort.

“Get. Up.”

“Not feeling it,” Jesse rolled over and tucked around his stomach.

“You think you got some kind of choice in the matter?”  
  
“Nope. I know I don’t - ack!” The hood was ripped away. He blinked, blinded by the sudden influx of light and he curled up tighter. Instinct screamed for him to protect the injured side. A hand bunched in his hair yanked his head back and forced his gaze to turn towards his tormentor. Jesse squeezed one eye shut still trying to adjust to the harsh room light. When Bridges’ boot pushed into his lower back, pressed into the developing bruise underneath the tattered flannel, Jesse gasped and glared up. The light creating an interesting halo around Bridges’ head felt utterly, painfully ironic. Jesse’s head fell down when the fingers released their hold.

Bridges’ crouched down, arms braced between mud covered knees and a smarmy grin across that leathery face. “Now,” Bridges reached out, the cold metal of his prosthetic hand patted against Jesse’s cheek. The action punctuated with a demeaning click of the tongue. “I’m thinking you’re going to change your answer.”  
  
“Ain’t doing much thinking when my head is a mile in the air,” Jesse let his head stay on the cool ground. The tiled floor felt amazing. The touch chilled the fever he felt crawling through his body.

“Jesse,” the syllables were drawn out. He caught the way Bridges’ thumb and forefinger rubbed over the man's nose.

“Yes boss?”

“Get up.”

Rolling over to press the other side of his face against the chilled touch of the floor, Jesse grunted, “Not -”

He knew the blow was coming. That didn't stop the scream or the way his knees jerked up to collide with his chin. Blood began to wash down and coat the back of his throat. The harsh rattle of pained coughs or the way his teeth clenched, eyes followed suit to chase away this new agony.

“Get him on his feet,” Bridges barked.

Rough hands yanked Jesse to his feet.

“When did y’all get here?” He grimaced, staring from one grunt to the other. Once he might have known their names. Now though, Deadlock members ran together like the sunset and the desert on a hot summer day. “Easy fellas.” Jesse tugged against the grabbing hands to no effect. He hung between the men, unwilling to balance his weight. A firm hand to the back of his neck, bunched in his hair and yanking his head up was the reward for that stubbornness. “What’s with y’all and the hair?!”  
  
“Do I have your attention?” Bridges peered at the scene, arms crossed with waning patience.

“Sure thing, Boss,” Jesse held out his hands, face twisted into a comical version of a sincere grin. The toes of his boots scuffed the ground.

“Good enough.” Bridges turned and disappeared through the open doorway. The rough staccato of light eked into the tiny room. With just a dingy bed, ratted tile floor and three sweaty bodies occupying the space, the smell of body odor edged out everything else.  
  
Jesse balanced unsteadily on his heels; tried to ease the pressure against his ribs or close his eyes in the vain attempt to chase away the crawling claws of inbound migraine. Too little food and too much abuse lead to an unhealthy body. So he sagged again when his right leg wobbled then gave. Deadlock was good for something, for once, their rotten hands kept Jesse from becoming fast friends with the floor.

“How’d he wrangle you boys into guard duty?”

Neither man answered.

“Alright,” Jesse balanced on his other foot. The shift eased some of the tug against his injured side. He puffed trying to move the oil slick strands of hair from his vision. They clung to his forehead; plastered there from fever or the heat or both. “Little help?” He dared to ask. One man grunted and ignored him. The other raised a brow, a surly looking fella, and instead ran a rough palm across Jesse's forehead smearing his bangs and everything else down. Beneath the new curtain of dingy hair Jesse sordidly chuckled. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” the grunt sneered.

“So ya do talk,” Jesse craned his neck to catch the gleam of dark mischief in the other man's gaze. “How's the weather?”

Again, neither answered. Heavy boot steps banged against tile and drew three stares.

“Jesse, do you remember that muzzle we used to use on the dogs?” Bridges body took up the doorway. Paper crinkled in his hands.

“Not really. Going to have to jog my memory boss,” Jesse replied.

“Leather contraptions. Real nasty pieces meant to keep the muzzle in place with barbs. They’d poke the mutts if they so much as whimpered wrong,” Bridges stepped into the room, his arm falling to the side and revealed the evenly folded ends of a newspaper.

“Nope. Don’t recall,” Jesse eased back into the grip holding him upright. Used the two brutes as a means of maintaining balance while his gut sank further with each word.

“We took the design and reworked it. Created a muzzle for loud mouthed bastards. I would think you’d remember Jesse. After all, you designed ’em,” Bridges opened the paper. Meaty fingers took care and unfolded each section with each sentence. The leather straps falling out. The rusted steel barbs embedded along the inside of those straps caught the light. The hands around his biceps and under arms tightened.

Jesse sealed his lips and glared. He had seen those devilish contraptions at work. The way the barbs tore through the flesh of a rat’s cheeks and cut through their tongue. The rust came from unwashed blood and careless cleaning. Often, infection and insanity from the agony killed the wearer before bullets could. The only reason he helped create the monstrosity because Deadlock was family and everyone carried a loaded gun. The promise of two pounds of lead to the cranium was a mighty effective motivator.

Then Bridges tossed the harness to the side. The leather and metal clattered and skid across the ground to disappear under the ratty bed.

“We don't use those anymore,” Bridges laughed. The action was full bellied and shook the man's frame; Jesse didn't hide the relief that sagged his shoulders. “It's easier to get a man talking when he still has a tongue.”

“Good to know,” Jesse glared.

“Not what you'll find interesting though,” Bridges said. “This, however, you will.” The paper wrapping (a bona fide printed newspaper) snapped up, held between Bridges metal and flesh hands. The headline in obnoxious bold print stood out. Jesse squinted and stared and blinked to make certain this wasn't a trick of his own hazy mind.

**FOUR DEAD IN FAILED RAID**

“Late Friday night local authorities attempted to raid a purported methamphetamine ring… four confirmed dead… seven injured… Deadlock Gang believed to…”  


He skimmed then stopped. His breath caught in his throat. The grunt to his right shifted and snatched the paper. The photograph on the cover crystal clear and unmistakable this close; a string of wanted posters superimposed over an imploded industrial building. There, slapped next to Bridges own broken nosed and black eyed mugshot was his own. A rough pencil and paper sketch but the likeness uncanny.

“Cute,” Jesse heard the strain in his voice even trying to backpedal and hide behind the facade of bravado. “They're a couple years behind with that info though. Fuck y'all kept me hogtied in these dark rooms and keep asking the same questions with those fists.”

The paper was tossed to the tile. A tablet pulled off the stand by the doorway appeared in Bridges hands. His fingers worked the lock and after the confirmation ding, he flipped the tablet around. Grainy security footage sprung to life on the screen.

“Home movies are nice and all-” Jesse yelped, cut off as the grunt holding his limp prosthetic twisted the skin and muscles just above the broken connector. Sparks coughed out as torn wires brushed and vainly attempted to reestablish ruined connections.

“Cute,” Bridges threw the sarcasm back. “Watch.”

One meaty finger tapped the screen. The outlines of half a dozen figures unloaded crates from a dock into the open end of a truck. The vehicle was cut off in the frame. Whether the side was unmarked or not he couldn't discern. The crates themselves had the markings of biodegradable and perishable burned into the sides. Three men worked a conveyer line from the dock to the bed of the truck. The other three stood to the side.

Bridges pressed two fingers to the screen and expanded the image. One of the men stood amongst the others, arms waving in directive motions. There was no sound on the feed.

“You still shout to be heard?” Jesse quipped.

Bridges made no remark, instead merely tapping the screen again. The frame zoomed to the top corner where a seventh man stood. Jesse blinked. The figure on the screen tipped back the wide brim of a hat. The face underneath stared back hollow eyed and unrecognizable. That stance and the thrown back shoulders were familiar.

“Someone stole my aesthetic. I’m flattered,” Jesse said, head turned to stare at the men holding him and offered each a cheap laugh.

Yet still Bridges made no comment and turned the tablet around. Thick, mechanical fingers danced across the screen. Jesse watched. A quip balanced on the tip of his tongue. His weight shifted trying and failing to get some semblance of balance off the punctuated pain in his side.

The tablet flipped.

The imagine was no longer blurred. Jesse couldn't deny the face that stared back; sharp features, untrimmed beard and haughty nose all examined the scene with the quiet calm of an overseer.

“No,” Jesse breathed, gaze turned cold at the screen.

“This footage is from last night.” Bridges tapped again and the recording paused.

“Manipulated,” Jesse snarled.

“These boys ain't that smart.”

The burning end of the cigar clenched between the man's jaw highlighted certain features; namely, the scar across the right brow. Jesse needed only look in a mirror and those crows feet and hardened brow would stare right back. Anger broiled in his gut stirred by the forgotten knowledge of Deadlock’s dirty tactics and filthy connections; the catalyst a dust that made even the most the stubborn mule of a man a slave to Deadlocks whims.

Jesse inhaled, back muscles tensed and roared; the vicious sound of desperation. He jerked against the hands, felt the rumble of a roar vibrate in his chest as his foot slammed down on the instep of the grunt to the right. The grip around his arm loosened and Jesse snapped back. The hardened bone of his elbow cracked into cartilage. The man screamed and backpedaled. Jesse yanked his flesh arm around, the angle wrong, not near enough power behind the blow but he caught the underside of the second grunt’s jaw and kept going until his bare knuckles collided with the soft flesh of the man's throat. The grunt choked, coughing on his own spittle and surprise.

The cock of a hammer stopped his momentum. Jesse glared down the barrel of a revolver and caught Bridges’ quiet annoyance staring back.

That moment of hesitation and Jesse doubled over with a shout when a fist connected with his side. Sharp, excruciating pain erupted under the blow. His breath followed, unable to catch up with the agony. Great, massive gulps in foolish attempts to keep his wits about him. Instead, his legs buckled and only a pair of burly hands wrapped in the tattered flannel kept him from smashing against tile. Pushed to his knees, both arms ripped and clenched behind his back, Jesse bared his gritted teeth and grimacing face. The gun stayed steady and trained. The second grunt was still doubled over hacking and wretching; all vain attempts to catch breath that wasn't there. A tiny victory.

“I'm not fixing any video. What you saw ain't a lie,” Bridges said from behind the gun barrel. The grizzled gang leader's features twisted into a bastardization of contempt and victory with a flash of stained teeth.

“Gang running so ragged they need help from south of the border now?” Jesse sneered.

“We get help where we need it,” Bridges shrugged yet kept the weapon level.

“How many girls did that cost?” Jesse winced when his words got a reaction. The palm braced against his right shoulder twisted and pressed pulling his arm further back.

“Don't matter. We got you now and that brilliant brain,” the cold end of the barrel tapped Jesse's temple. “And we'll keep using it.”

A shuffle of feet at the entrance of the room drew the occupants’ attention. The gun twisted and disappeared, shoved in a back holster Jesse couldn't see.

“What Joshua?”

“The gears packed and the boys are ready to go. You said to get ya.” A gruff voice said. A skinny kid with clothes a size too large and hands he needed to grow into stood there. The cold of a child grown up too fast echoed back in the disdain behind those young brown eyes.

“Alright. Get Higgins in here. We got a body to haul,” Bridges moved to the door, braced an arm against the frame and continued the conversation in a whisper. Jesse strained to hear. He watched the shift of Bridges shoulders. Something passed between hands. The messenger glanced at Jesse and scoffed.

“Some Deadlock legend.”

“Get Joshua!” Bridges snapped. The twig of a kid disappeared in a heartbeat. “Hold him still.” Bridges turned on his heel.

“We going somewhere?”Jesse stiffened, rolled his shoulders and ducked his head trying to steady a quickly accelerating heart. “Going to tell me where?” He continued when all Bridges did was step closer. The man's flesh hand extended, the palm flat and easily observable. A white wrapper, the ends of which perks from between thick fingers, nestled in there.

Another routine.

Another memory.

Another Deadlock tactic he was responsible for.

“You know you won’t remember but I’ll tell you anyway.  
  
Jesse tensed when that palm settled barely an inch from his face. The fine ground powder therein smelled of nothing. It would taste of nothing yet go down with a single inhale and leave a bile filled tingle in the back of his throat.

“You'll make it. Stubborn as a mule and just as strong. Time to go to sleep Kid. We have a train to catch,” The fine, ground powder, light brown to the point it nearly blended into the tanned skin it rested upon, Jesse settled for a narrow eyed glare. His nostrils flared slightly. Defiance was his only weapon. The leader of the Deadlock gang ripped it away with a breath. The room swam then distorted. The burlap bag draped over his head, cut out the light and lucidity chased on its heels.

\-- -- --

_His knees hit the cement. Kneecaps voiced their discontent at the abuse with a sharp crack. The pain was immediate yet quick to dissipate. His focused turned towards the growing ache in his shoulders and the sharp burn at his side. The shots and shouts died down as the men were rounded up. Arms tussled behind backs, wrists bound together with the harsh jerk of a ziptie, and their heads covered in grain sacks. He was certain the makeshift hoods were the bags used to store their provisions. One whiff of the smell inside - stale and suffocating - confirmed that suspicion._

_He had come too after what seemed like only minutes of unconsciousness. The transport no longer roared overhead. The casual stomp of combat boots came and went; Blackwatch exiting and entering seemingly without worry. The fighting was over. The screams of the dead and resisting faded in favor of men who knew the worst of their job was behind them. Now they merely needed to clean up the mess. Jesse ground his teeth, fingers rubbing over the thin plastic tie around his wrists and dutifully ignoring the pinprick of soreness just above his tailbone._

_The sound underneath the hood was like being on the end of a long tunnel. Too many feet marching around accompanied the grunts and boisterous protests from Deadlock members being manhandled. His ears strained to pick out the voices he didn't know; searching for any hint to what was to be their fate._

_Jesse listened. Did what he did best and searched for the clue to surviving this encounter. This raid was another barricade to staying alive._

_“How many more?” The voice of someone used to being in charge. Didn’t sound masculine though._

_“They’re still rounding them up Captain,” he could hear the salute. The snap of heels told him military training._

_“That’s not what I asked Second Lieutenant,” that first voice again. Definitely feminine now that he could hear it again. His focus shifted to the conversation. To pluck what information he could. If they thought him a dumb kid, another unfortunate idiot with more brawn than brains, perhaps something might slip out._

_“Right. Yes sir,” the poor soldier stuck reporting sounded so woefully unprepared it was laughable._

_“Well?” The woman again. Jesse bit down his laughter. The soldier’s shuffled feet and nervous energy practically heated the whole room._

_The shuffle of paper. The clatter of cork - a clipboard falling or being fumbled with. The clearing of an anxious throat._

_“At present we have rounded up eleven members. Three casualties have been accounted for. One man currently being handled by medics for abdominal trauma-”_

_Jesse caught the muttered complaint. It was in a language he didn’t recognize, but the cadence of annoyance was unmistakable and that told him enough._

_“Sir?” The soldier stopped. Another shuffle of feet._

_“Apologies Second Lieutenant. Continue,” the feminine voice was honestly apologetic._

_“Right. One man being handled by medics for abdominal trauma. A handful of minor injuries that can be dealt with on the transport.” The flicker of paper and snap of metal - definitely a clipboard._

_“That’s Deadlock correct?”_

_“Yes sir.”_  
  
_“What about our men?” Jesse kept his head down, hairs falling loose in the hood tickled his nose. He wrinkled the skin to stop from sneezing - from drawing attention. His ears strained to listen. The rough material of the hood scratched his face, irritated his neck, and rubbed in all the wrong places._

_“No major injuries. Medics are tending to them. On casualty, sir,” the last piece of the report came out in a near whisper Jesse noted._

_“Wilkerson?”_  
  
_“Yes sir.”_

_“Thank you Second Lieutenant. Report to Commander Reyes. You’re dismissed,” he could imagine the wave of a hand or a similar gesture. The sound of trained, military boots marching away perhaps a bit too hasty. Another string of words in that same language he couldn’t understand. Jesse shifted his weight, falling back to balance his ass on the heels of his boots. Anything to ease the strain on his shoulders. There was nothing for the fresh injury on his right side. The bullet just grazed the skin but the fabric of his shirt clung to the drying blood. Every breath tugged on the shirt stuck to his side._

_“So when you telling us what the hell’s gonna happen?” He groaned at the question. One of the newer recruits with a need to mouth off._

_No answer. The proverbial pin dropped with the very loud crash of a body into a wooden crate. A string of expletives followed. Heavy boots, solid soles, pounded the floor drawing closer. Jesse tensed. Natural instinct to run, to hide, to make himself small, and barely noticeable. Traits driven into his thought process from years running with Deadlock, from avoiding the business end of Bridges’ bully stick, or the smoking gun of the law._

_Those boots stopped. He could smell the acrid spit shine._

_Jesse tensed._

_“Next?” The new voice snapped out. Deep. Smoke and gravel and years of abuse. This was a leader and someone to avoid. Jesse wanted to snarl, to back away, to escape but a single action stopped him. Not the zip ties around his wrists. Not the throbbing pain from the bullet wound nor the fact that a hood obscured his vision. It was a hand, thick fingers, wrapped around the back of his neck, and the pressure earned a sharp, surprised, indignant yelp._  
  
_The hood was ripped off, tossed away. Jesse blinked, his body hauled up, feet desperate for purchase on concrete - the caricature of the wily coyote trying to run on air above the thousand foot cliff. A thousand foot drop in the form of dark scarred skin, a distasteful sneer, and … pity._  
  
_“Damn fucker! Put me down!” He lashed out, feet swinging up, ankles together, trying to get in a blow based on surprise. He connected with nothing. The response was a fist to his gut and Jesse choked. He gasped, mouth agape, trying to inhale air with lungs that refused to function. In that brief second he went from the air to the ground. Back slammed into the concrete, immediate pain, and he snarled to keep down the threat of tears. The pathetic display held no place here._

_“You’re down,” the irate man loomed above him. Thick arms crossed over a broad chest and his shirt strained with the effort._

_“Ain’t going to thank ya,” Jesse spit back. The liquid tainted with crimson. Blood from his cheek with his teeth cut into the tender flesh._  
  
_“Don’t expect it,” the man continued to glare down at him._

_Jesse returned the expression, hiding behind the facade of stubborn, insubordinate youth. His brows narrowed. His teeth bared just enough to flash the dingy yellow of coffee stains and cigarettes. They stared each other down. Dark brown against light. A bedraggled young man dressed in torn jeans, faded flannel, and covered in dust sizing up a trained military man with legs round as oak trunks and arms that could crush a man’s head. Like Jesse stood a fucking chance._

_"You killed one of my men. Injured two more," the stern man spoke like this was a report; a statement of facts._

_The retort Jesse's brain hastily gathered disappeared two seconds later._

_“Commander!” Another soldier. The man’s salute smart, snappy, and to the point._

_“What?” The man, this Commander, turned to the soldier unfortunate enough to demand his attention._

_“We've found the leader.”_

_“Where?” The Commander demanded. The soldier glanced down at Jesse. Another look of pity. Jesse snarled only to have a heavy combat boot pressed against his ankle. He yelped as bones and cartilage began to give under the weight. The soldier snapped back to attention._

_“He's holed up in the rear of compound-”_

_“Captain.”_

_Jesse hadn't noticed the woman approach. The rifle slung across her back peeked over a narrow shoulder. The jacket she wore was fitted but the pads gave her a hawkish appearance. A zaffre beret sat at an angle on pencil straight hair. The whole of the locks pulled back to settle in a low slung ponytail. The saffron dust of the desert outside coated the woman’s front, bunched around the knees, the shins, and the chest. There was a mark under her left eye. A tattoo - the design a downward spiral into a form he wasn’t familiar with._

_“The leader has three, possibly four others with him,” she responded to the unspoken question._

_“Do we know what’s in this backroom? Ammunition? Weapons?” The Commander didn’t physically tower over the woman--his Captain, just barely a head taller--yet Jesse got the sense that she was the more imposing. Her presence demanded the attention of the room._

_“Their sidearms. Possibly a rifle or shotgun between them. Whatever ammunition they grabbed running to hide,” she shrugged giving the report. The action meant to adjust the weight of the rifle across her back. The subtle clatter of metal against protective shoulder plates distinctly noticeable._

_“So we’re going in blind,” the Commander shifted, weight to the opposite leg. The soldier that first reported stood with an awkward, tense line to his body. The unfortunate man stuck between these two imposing forces. The Commander rubbed his fingers over a prematurely creased brow. Then down the angular jaw to pull at his stubble coated chin. “Gather the men. Set up a barricade and fall back position. And take these ruffians to the transport. Dismissed.” The Commander snapped at the soldier. Jesse watched the man march away, back ramrod straight demanding attention and respect._

_Jesse caught the way the Captain simply stood there, slung the rifle over to rest across her arms, and cast a glance back in his direction. He glared back because the pity in the woman’s gaze burned his chest worse than the desert sun in the high summer._

_He loathed her._

_Then a soldier hustled him to stand, hardened hands wrapped around his biceps and lifted. He didn’t protest. Brought to his feet Jesse was shoved into line to follow the rest of those whose feet couldn’t outrun fate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to the lovely and encouraging [DryDreams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DryDreams) for coming in and offering to beta when I was floundering for one. 
> 
> Whiskey Lullaby now has Fanart!  
> \--> Now boys settle down.  
> ["Can't trust a man who won't fight his own battles."](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com/post/154921079736/for-my-wonderful-friend-and-beta-captainxcorgi%20)  
> \--> Left in charge of dinner.  
> ["This is dinner?"](http://lucydoesart.tumblr.com/post/154345712337/commission-for-captainxcorgi-they-write-fanfic)  
> \--> Cornered in the alleyway.  
> ["He spat blood. His lungs burned."](http://kazimo.tumblr.com/post/158515726163/captainxcorgi-kazimo-a-mccree-piece)  
> \--> Sunset and sake in Gibraltar.  
> ["Maybe that stick ain't so far up your ass after all."](http://domirine.tumblr.com/post/158929047456/piece-of-hanzo-and-mccree-chillin-a-commission)
> 
> Can always find me on Tumblr or Twitter at: captainxcorgi!  
> Kudos are appreciated! Comments are adored and always replied to!


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